


children of ares;

by thedarklings



Series: children of ares [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassins & Hitmen, Badass!Reader, Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Family, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Torture, Italian Mafia, Jealousy, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Partners in Crime, Pining, Poison, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Swearing, Tenderness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2021-03-28
Packaged: 2021-04-11 23:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 309,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21585043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/pseuds/thedarklings
Summary: “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”
Relationships: Ares & Reader, Ares & Santino D'Antonio, John Wick & Reader, John Wick/Reader, Reader & Original Characters, Santino D'Antonio & Reader, Santino D'Antonio/Reader, Winston & Reader
Series: children of ares [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653139
Comments: 323
Kudos: 481





	1. children of ares;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposting this from Tumblr for easier access! Hope you enjoy it!

> _“Tell me a story with a happy ending.”  
_
> 
> _“I can’t. People like us don’t get happy endings.”_

* * *

The first time you meet him, he points a gun to your face with a sharpness that makes your pulse race.

You’re just a second behind him, but you know perfectly well that it would have been a second too late. 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath, waving his hand in irritation. “Will you two lower your weapons, we aren’t in the zoo.”

The man clad in all black does so immediately, and you idly wonder just how tight his leash is if he obeys so seamlessly. 

You watch him warily as you lower your arm as well, hesitating just long enough for Tarasov’s gaze to slide your way. While you don’t want to piss off your new boss, the man in black stands beside him with a stoic sort of calmness that makes your instincts prickle with unease. 

You _know_ who he is. 

You’ve heard stories about him. 

Soft, terrified murmurs of his infamy—of his terrifying skill. You would rather not meet him at all, truth be told. 

Even amongst killers, John Wick’s name is spoken with a degree of reluctant respect and fear. 

“John, this is our newest associate. I wanted to introduce you personally,” Tarasov explains easily, pouring himself another glass of vodka. “I was rather hoping you will be able to look after her for a bit. Show her how we do business.”

You rather he didn’t. Truly. 

John Wick is tall, calm, and deadly focused on every twitch of your body. 

Underground world has some certains you can find in any corner of the world: money, blood, drugs, and high egos. The latter goes hand in hand with an inflated sense of self-importance and posturing. 

You’re used to that. You know how to handle people with egos. Know how to communicate with those who like the sound of their own voice a bit _too_ much. 

Yet, John Wick somehow manages to be the most fear-inducing thing in the room without so much as making a sound.

His dark eyes appear almost black when they finally connect with yours. There is nothing but polite coolness to be found in his gaze. 

“Sure.”

Tarasov grins wider, saluting you both with his glass, “Excellent,” he intones in smooth Russian. “I do believe this is the start of something rather beautiful.”

* * *

Three months down the line, and you’re still unsure what to make of John. 

Anyone who kills people for a living should be easy to pindown. Sure, everyone has their own reasons, but at the end of the day, they’re all a little twisted. 

John is a walking contradiction. 

He’s cold, he’s stoic, he’s frighteningly efficient in his field. John rarely speaks, and getting more than a few sentences out of him at any given time seems like an incredible feat. 

But he’s also kind in the most subtle ways, thoughtful, and always—_unfailingly_—has your back on the field. 

Tarasov originally wanted you to do three missions together before he sent you on your own. But somewhere along the way, he seems to have concluded that you work better as a unit. 

It’s odd at first. You’re not used to working with someone, and you’ve never heard of John having a partner with him either. He’s the man they send when no one else wants the contract or they simply can’t finish the job. So working with him is as bizarre as everyone's reactions when they see you together. 

Most of the time, you’re not sure if he even likes you because most of the time, it’s near impossible to read him.

On paper you should never work, you know that much. 

He’s older. His name is known. He’s earned the respect of some of the deadliest in the world.

You’re a nobody from nowhere. Sure, your skills are finally being utilized and by merely associating with John and Tarasov, people are starting to take notice of you, too. But doubt still lingers in your mind as you go through one job after another. 

Truthfully, you’re still unsure if there’s a place for you here, in this shadowy circle of Tarasov’s gang. Though all the alternatives are so much worse you can’t even entertain the idea of a different life right now.

“A stick of gum?”

John is silent for a long time, and for a second you worry that he may not have heard you over the sound of the wind, but you don’t dare to lift your gaze from the scope in front of you. 

Patience you know well. It’s one of the very few areas where you and John are equals. 

“Realistically, one,” he finally mutters, his voice low to a point you have to strain to hear. Blinking, you suppress a grin, adjusting your position as you wait for your target to appear. 

“Just the one?” you repeat with obvious disappointment. “Huh.”

John’s breaths are quiet next to you, thoughtful, “Sorry to disappoint but choking is the only viable option,” he points out a little dryly. 

You hum contemplatively, trying to think of your own spin on this scenario. It has become a bit of a game between you. When you first started working together, John’s company was near painfully boring, especially on long jobs. So you came up with the idea of challenging him with ordinary objects and drilling him on how many people he can realistically kill with them. Of course, he has to fully justify his reasoning for each casualty—that’s half the fun right there after all. 

He still likes his space and peace to this day, but at least now you get him to talk with you regularly on jobs. 

“See if it were me,” you begin in an unhurried drawl. “I would put slow-acting poison in the gum. Maybe even add a dispersing agent into it, so anyone the target comes into contact with would die as well. Multiple dead, I won’t even have to break a sweat.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” he points out idly, but the challenge in his voice is clear. “And highly volatile. How can you be sure it won’t accidentally kill your partner or anyone else that needs to be kept safe?”

“Antidotes, John, _c’mon_ now,” you shoot back playfully, your finger moving to rest against the trigger when you spot slight movement in the building opposite to you. “Oh, the party is a go. Target twelve o’clock.”

You both watch as the men file into the room, chatting and pouring drinks as both parties sit themselves down around the room. A typical setting for deal negotiations. Of course, Tarasov doesn’t want any negotiations to happen at all—hence why you and John are here, and ready to rectify that. 

“You have a clear shot,” John speaks beside you after a long pause, and it still unsettles you how composed he is during jobs and outside of them. It’s like nothing can ever affect him. With every job, every interaction, you begin to understand more and more why the nickname The Boogeyman is starting to catch on. “Take the shot.”

You do. 

Inhaling deeply, you line the shot and it pierces the air with a deafening whistle that shatters the hotel window to pieces. 

Panic reigns and the men scatter like cattle. Some try to find where the shot came from, but by the time they come anywhere near the window, you and John are already walking down the fire exit in a calm, unhurried fashion. The target is dead, and that’s all either of you care about.

“You’ve gotten better.”

It’s not praise, not exactly, more of a tepid assessment. But you take what you can get with John nowadays. In the beginning, it unsettled you, but now you just know that’s how he is. 

“Marcus is a pretty nice guy once you break past that prideful demeanour of his,” you joke with a slight laugh as you both get into his car. “I think he tolerates my pestering because of you, to be honest.”

You feel John’s curious gaze on you, and when you turn to glance at him one of his eyebrows is arched slightly. “That so?” 

“Drive on, Wick,” you say instead. “I’m _starving_. I wonder what it is about doing this job that always makes me so damn hungry.”

* * *

“You’re a pain in _my ass_, I hope you know that.”

John only grunts in reply. 

You half drag him with you through the front lobby of The Continental as you slowly approach the reception. 

Charon welcomes you with his typical placid smile and a polite nod of his head. 

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” he greets politely, unfazed by all the blood covering you both as you stagger to a stop in front of his desk. “Pleasure as always. A room for two?”

You nod your head briskly, shifting on your feet till more of John’s weight is leaning against you. “Thanks,” you mutter, sliding the golden coin across the smooth wood. There’s still specks of blood on it, but Charon takes it without batting an eye. 

“Will you be needing a doctor tonight?” he questions with a tilt of his head, ever the helpful hotel concierge. 

You’re shaking your own head before he’s even finished speaking, and glance at the still dazed John beside you. He’s already looking better than he did fifteen minutes ago—less pale and clammy—meaning that the poison is slowly but steadily leaving his system. 

“We’ll be fine,” you say wearily. “But if you could send us up some X7 and Aspirin later, I would appreciate it.”

Charon hums, noting your request immediately in a notepad in front of him. 

“X7 will take a bit longer but consider it done,” he responds pleasantly, sliding your room key across the table. You grapple for it, clenching it tightly between your bloody fingers. “Enjoy your stay,” he adds as you turn to go.

You grunt some vague pleasantry back but your mind is only focused on getting John to the hotel room before his legs decide to give out on him. 

By the time you make it to your room on the third floor—Charon has mercifully put your room only a few doors away from the elevator, and you make a mental note to thank him for it tomorrow—your arms are trembling from the strain. John falls on the couch heavily, a harsh groan rattling free the moment he does, indicating just how bad he must be feeling. 

His dark, half-lidded eyes track your movements as you stumble towards the bathroom, grabbing the complimentary first-aid kit found in every room. A certain, intent sharpness you’re used to seeing is missing from his gaze and you snap your fingers in front of his face a few times. 

“Hey, you still with me?”

John nods his head and groans as he sits up, leaving you once again impressed with his silent strength. It seems like things that would kill ordinary men ten times over barely leave a dent on John. Some part of you can’t help but be slightly envious of the fact that he’s really as brilliant and as unstoppable as everyone makes him out to be. 

He shrugs off his jacket under your command, leaving him in only a shirt and a tie and you loosen it, hurriedly wrapping it above his bleeding forearm. 

“See, poison is a bitch when it’s not done by yours truly,” you mutter under your breath, carefully tracking his breathing patterns. “Aren’t you a lucky boy to have me on hand?”

His answer to your poor attempt at a joke is a half-hearted glare, and you smile weakly, grabbing a small blade from your boot to cut off his shirt sleeve. The white material flutters towards the ground and you grimace at the deep gash running at least eight centimetres down his arm. It looks angry and inflamed; a side effect to the potent poison the blade to make that cut was laced with. 

You brush the damp strands of loose hair away from his sweaty forehead, and press your palm against his skin. A pleased hum escapes you and you nod your head, satisfied, before turning to sanitize the needle you’ll be using. 

“The fever is going down,” you tell him when you feel his silent question hang in the air between you. “That means the antidote is working. You should be back to normal in another hour or so. _Gelsemine_ though? _Jesus_. I miss the days when people used Thallium and thought they were efficient poisoners.”

You grab your belt, taking it off with a hurried jerk as you offer it to John who looks up at you in confusion. “For the pain,” you supply, shaking your hand a little.

“Just get me something strong,” he grunts, pointedly shifting his gaze to the table where a bottle of something that looks like whiskey sits untouched. 

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head, “Not if you want to start vomiting blood. The poison is still in your system. Alcohol will make it worse and likely kill the antidote too. _Take it_.”

John looks away and you roll your eyes, dropping the belt to the ground as you step between his legs to get better access to the wound. 

“Right, okay, this will hurt.”

John doesn’t say anything—not that you expect him to. You start with cleaning the cut first, and John’s fingers sink into the couch but he remains stubbornly silent. His eyes focus on a spot just above your shoulder as you work quietly. Cleaning wounds is meticulous work, and your line of work assures that you’re _always_ meticulous. By the time the needle finally pierces John’s skin, it already looks better. 

His jaw clenches tightly as you move the needle in and out of his skin. You know it’s excruciating but he makes no protests aside from occasional soft grunt of pain. His blood is warm on your fingers and you work as quickly as you can without messing up, a slight tremor shaking your hand. 

“How,” he begins before clearing his throat. “How did you get involved in all of this?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat, unsure if he’s trying to distract himself from pain or truly asking because he wants to know.

“How does _anyone_ get involved with this sort of thing,” you answer dully, not taking the bait. “We’ve known each other for almost a year and you’re only asking about my tragic past now? _Tsk, tsk_.”

You feel his eyes focus on you, and pull on the needle harder, tightening the stitches much to John’s clear discomfort. 

You’re both silent for a long moment after that, and much to your surprise John doesn’t push further. Most people would. 

But John Wick is not most people, you’ve come to find. 

He’s the type of man who never tries to make passes on you, never makes unnecessary comments about you or your appearance, and always insists on two beds. If there’s no spare bed, he always offers to sleep on the couch or the floor—the only exception to this rule is if he’s injured himself. 

“My parents,” you speak softly before stopping. There’s a sudden tightness in your chest and throat as you swallow, gripping John’s arm tighter so you don’t slip with all the blood coating your hands. You feel his attention turn to you, and work to control your breathing. “They worked for Tarasov when he still ran his drug operation in Moscow. Everyone owned him. He practically ran the city. People were watched, police bought out. I didn’t know about any of it. My father was tasked with the export of drugs from and into the country. My mother worked directly in one of his drug houses. Keeping the books.”

You pause, breathing deeply, and grab the nearby towel to wipe away the blood on John’s arm. Hesitating, you glance up at him. He looks alert again, sharp, and you wonder if you should continue. 

This man is already lethal—the last thing he needs is leverage over you. 

But—

You move towards the desk where the bottle of whiskey is sitting while you wipe your own hands on a towel, hiding the visible trembling of your fingers as you resume your story. 

“They decided that it would be a good idea to have a side gig on the side,” you continue, your words flat, emotionless. By now, you don’t feel grief when thinking about your parents. Just anger. The destructive, bubbling sort of rage that festers under your skin every day. “My mother started adjusting the numbers. Little by little. Nothing Tarasov would notice. Never more than thirty thousand rubles per shipment. That may sound like a lot but actually, it’s less than five hundred bucks. Seems laughable now when I think about it. For us, of course, every month that kind of money made a big difference. We didn’t need many luxuries. But they say your greed grows as you eat.”

You turn back towards John, bringing the bottle over to him. Sitting down on the table in front of him, you pour some of the whiskey on a fresh towel and press the soaked material against his arm. John’s expression twists slightly but you can tell from the way his eyes focus on you seconds later that he’s listening intently to your every word. 

“They started taking a bit more every month,” you whisper, swallowing your anger, “More and more. Just _a bit_. But penny after penny and it all adds up. Tarasov eventually found out, of course. He gathered everyone who works for him and had my parents shot in front of them. That’s how you keep sheep in line. You scare them till they’re too afraid to do anything, even help. I don’t blame them though. Those people had nothing. Elderly. Orphaned kids. Immigrants. Fear and hunger are all they’ve known. And well, after...”

Your head dips, and you nibble on your lip for a second, tasting blood. For the first time in a long time, the coppery tang makes you feel queasy. 

“Tarasov came to our flat that same afternoon. Had me make him dinner practically at gunpoint,” you explain further, a sardonic smile twisting your mouth as you meet John’s steady stare. So far, he hasn’t made a sound. “We discussed my parents' debt to him. He could have just had me shot too of course. But he said he didn’t want that. He said that my talents with chemistry were too valuable for him to waste. So he gave me a choice. I work for him until my parents' debt is paid off or….” 

For the first time since you began your story, John speaks, “Or?”

You chuckle under your breath, removing the towel from his arm, and lightly press your fingertips against the tender flesh. 

“There’s many uses for a healthy, young woman, John,” you state flatly, your lips stretching into something that could never pass for a smile. 

You can’t exactly pinpoint his expression, but you know it’s not pity. Perhaps it’s sympathy or even compassion. Some deeper understanding that can’t be expressed with words alone. But for once you feel like John is looking at you openly and without that uncrackable armour he usually wears like a second skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, his voice almost gentle. “About your parents.” 

You scoff, taking a swing from the bottle and wince at the stinging burn the drink leaves in its wake. “They were stupid idiots,” you deadpan harshly. “I love them dearly. But they were fucking idiots.”

John nods once because you both know you’re right, and you swallow shakily, blinking your eyes rapidly.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet between you. You expect it to be awkward yet somehow it isn’t. In fact, it’s almost peaceful. 

“Anyway, I made my choice and here I am,” you mumble, carefully pouring him a tiny amount of the drink. He should be fine to drink it by now. _Probably_. “Tarasov said that once the debt is repaid, I’m free to go.” 

“And you believe that?”

Your eyes meet as John takes the glass from your hand. 

“No,” you reply frankly, your smile pained. “But when you have nothing, you have to believe in something.”

* * *

You settle into an odd little routine, you and John. 

Tarasov gives you a mission, you go, accomplish the impossible _somehow_ and get to go on breathing for another day. 

The longer you work together, the easier it becomes to correlate. Your only weakness—if one can even call it that—is that you’re both stubborn individualists. He’s a brute, relentless strength to your sly, vicious subtlety. That’s what makes the fact that character-wise you couldn’t be more different so stupidly hilarious to you. The only real arguments you have is the way in which the job should be approached.

That thought makes you chuckle and you wince in pain immediately after. The ice pack against your jaw shifts slightly, and you shift in your seat, trying to get more comfortable. Most of your body aches painfully, but your jaw feels especially sore. One of the idiots has managed to get three heavy hits in before John splattered his brain all over you. In return, you’ve been forced to kick John out of the path of a bullet hail.

He’s the one who pressed ice against your jaw while you were busy cleaning his bruised and bleeding knuckles. 

Then you sat in silence, digesting another job well done, and basking in the tranquil air of the hotel room while the pain-reducing solution you’ve made works its magic. 

And odd routine indeed. 

“Hey,” John’s voice breaks the soft tranquillity, and you jerk up, realising that you’ve come dangerously close to dozing off. “Do you ever think about getting out?”

You blink slowly, clearing your head as his words register. Then, confusion blooms, “Out? Get out of what?”

John doesn’t look at you though. His heavy gaze focuses on something outside, out of your sight. The slopes of his profile have become familiar to you—the raven hair, dark eyes, the small crinkles that appear around his eyes on the rare occasion he does smile. He’s not standoffish in the way others often accuse him of being now. If anything he looks softer somehow, more human than a weapon Tarasov boasts of so smugly. More than a living nightmare so many fear. 

He looks like a man. Simple as that, and when he finally turns to face you, you see the fresh cuts and bruises on his face. _Just a man._

“Getting out of this life,” he replies slowly, his voice rougher from the lucky hit one of the guards managed to get into his throat. “Getting away from _everything_. From Tarosov.”

It strikes you then that John is asking from a genuine place of interest—something he rarely indulges in with you, considering nine out of ten times all conversations between you are started by you. 

The second thing that strikes you is a genuine surprise. John is not the person you would ever expect to hear this type of question from. It’s private, it’s _raw_; he knows about your debt, about the chain around your neck. Better than most, perhaps better than everyone. But because you respect him enough to at least give it actual thought, you consider his question for a long time. 

It takes at least five minutes until you finally speak and when you do your voice sounds hollow in your own ears, “I never wanted this life,” you begin softly, your voice thin. “I never asked to be involved in any of this. I didn’t ask for my parents to take me from country to country, never allowing me to settle down anywhere or make friends. When they kept secrets and were barely home. I didn’t ask for adventure, or danger, or even _wealth_, John. But—”

John stares at you, considering you, no doubt analysing your words, and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat at his show of keen interest. 

“_But_,” you repeat again, your tone harsher. “I’m here, and I have to make the best of it. I’ve never been good at anything in my life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in this last year is that I’m very, _very_ good at this. I’m starting to think that violence is in my blood, and I don’t know what that means just yet but…”

You exhale, eyes fluttering shut and you only open them after counting to ten inside your head. Slow and steady as you meet his gaze straight on. “So to answer your question: _no_. No, I don’t think about it. Even after I’m finished dealing with Tarasov, I don’t see another path for myself anymore. It was taken from me.” 

John peers at you for a long, long time after you fall silent. You’re not sure what he discerns from your expression or what he’s searching for, but you doubt he finds it as his obsidian eyes eventually slide away from you and towards the window. 

The sun is rising in the East. 

Milan is beautiful this time of year. 

You sit together through the sunrise, not saying a word. 

Years later, you would look back on this as the last true moment of peace for an interminable number of years. 

* * *

Separation comes only two short months later like a punch to the face. 

Tarasov’s argument is simple: he needs two jobs done on different sides of the world. One requires the lethality John is infamous for, another requires the most subtle of touches; a snake’s slyness. 

Tarasov needs the Boogeyman and the Vipress but for vastly different things this time. 

John must sense your unease—this will be your first solo mission after all—and he stops you as soon as you’re both out of earshot of any prying eyes. 

“You’ll be fine,” he says so simply, effortlessly, with enough confidence in his low voice that for a second you believe him too. “It’s the perfect job for you.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” you shoot back with forced nonchalance. “I’m not that helpless.”

Your smile is forced, and John knows it too. 

He doesn’t point it out because deep down John _is_ kind—no matter how ironic it is for a deadly assassin to be that.

For once, you expect him to say something else but he doesn’t. One of Tarasov’s men shouts him over because his flight is leaving in three hours. John’s gaze lingers on you for an insignificant second but he still walks away, leaving a cold kind of silence in his wake. 

His name burns at the back of your throat as dread bubbles in the pit of your gut. 

But you don’t call his name out.

* * *

It doesn’t go bad. 

It doesn’t go well either. 

It goes thoroughly and wholly _to shit._

You grasp at your shoulder where blood is still pouring freely, and your eyes sting with tears of pain as you make your report to the silent Tarasov over the phone.

They have known. 

They have prepared. 

The target got away at the last moment.

You are lucky to still be alive. 

“Better you weren’t then,” Tarasov purrs in Russian, the letters curling like a death grip around your throat. “Report to me tomorrow.”

“But—”

The line goes dead. 

You pull the bullet out yourself. Through gritted teeth and sweat dripping down your forehead. You cry twice and throw up once before you pass out from pain and terror. Still, you manage to patch yourself up. 

The lack of John’s presence stings in an unexpected, violent way when you wake up, bleary-eyed and shivering.

You have gotten dependent on him and his help. 

Now it feels like a _weakness_. 

Now, you hate yourself for shaking in terror as you make your way to Tarasov’s new office in New York. 

You’re strong (_but not strong enough_), you’re smart (_but not enough_), you’re— 

You wonder if you should pray, or perhaps plead for help from some higher power. Tarasov as good as admitted that you will be dead by the end of this meeting. There is no helping you now. 

Sickness cramps your stomach and you dry heave in an alleyway behind his office. Your vision swims, your blood rushes in your ears and for a second you consider simply lying down on this cold, dirty ground and letting the world consume you.

You _failed_, you fucked up. First solo mission and you failed in the most spectacular way possible. The target got away. There’s no one to blame but yourself. 

You’ve considered poisoning him, but that seems so unlikely to succeed now. His lackeys will never allow you to walk through the office door without ransacking you, nor would Tarasov be stupid enough to let you anywhere near him. 

Death, now more than ever, seems like an inevitably. 

_John will save me. _

A harsh bark of laughter tears from your throat at the sudden, invasive whisper of your mind. How _pathetic_. To mess up is one thing, to know that there’s close to nothing you can do to rectify the situation is another, but to actually hope someone else _will_ _save you_…

Even if you are to allow yourself the overly indulgent thought, that still doesn’t change the fact that John is in Europe right now. Half a world away—too far away. 

John.

Knees quaking, you stand up. 

Squaring your shoulders, and ignoring the burn of pain in your left shoulder, you start walking. 

John would face this with dignity, with that same cool detachment he does most things. 

John would not quiver in some dingy alleyway. He would not cry like some pathetic idiot because of his own mistake. He would face it, and he would fight back. 

Your forehead presses against the freezing wall of the building as you pull yourself together piece by piece. 

You are no longer that same girl who wept over your parents because you have no idea where they are buried, or if they even _had_ a burial. If perhaps their bodies have been thrown onto the streets, or woods, or simply fed to the dogs. 

That girl has been killed by your parents' stupidity. 

Now only the Vipress remains. 

Vipress who is a master poisoner, whose name is no longer whispered with mockery but with reluctant respect that’s starting to rival John’s.

With every step, you stand straighter, walk with more confidence. Your shoulder throbs terribly but you step into the building as through a fog.

Tarasov greets you with a glass of vodka and a wide grin. 

The hardness of his gaze is chilling though, and you try to keep your cool demeanour, emulating John as much as possible. Two other guards lurk in the dark corners of the room, and you still entertain the thought that you can take them if it comes to that. 

Your heartbeat is so deafening in your ears, you barely catch Tarasov’s words. 

“Sorry?”

His grin stretches even further, and he tuts, “_My, my_, I almost forgot. How’s the shoulder?”

He doesn’t sound like he cares. But not answering would be a stupid thing to do. “It’s fine, sir.”

Tarasov makes a small sound at the back of his throat before his fist strikes your shoulder with enough force that you crumble to the floor. A cry of pain manages to escape before you bite your cheek, hot blood flooding your mouth as you tremble on the floor before him. 

“Oh, my,” Tarasov comments in sharp Russian as if surprised by your predicament while one of his guards hands him his glass. “Seems like you’re not as ‘fine’ as you say. You’ve disappointed me, (Name). Greatly.”

Tarasov pats your head, the contact heavy and patronizing, as he jerks your head up. He stares at you with a hum, shaking his head as his powerful features rearrange into a look of genuine disappointment. 

“Stand up,” he orders sharply and lets go of you, allowing you space to stagger to your feet. “It would be undignified to shoot you like this. Believe it or not, my hopes for you were high and you’ve been rather useful to me. I at least respect _that_.”

The two guards shift in the dim room, and you bare your bloody teeth on instinct, lowering your blood-covered hand from your shoulder. If they want to fight... 

Tarasov laughs genuinely this time, loud and booming, suddenly reminding you of your father. “You’ve got fire, little viper. I will need that ferocity for our expansion. But you also fucked up. _Badly_. But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?” 

You don’t answer, staring at him through a pain-fueled haze. Tarasov ‘tsk’s and the back of his hand strikes your face with numbing force. Your lip splits on contact, one side of your face tingling with raw pain as your head snaps to the side. 

Few droplets of blood hit the pristine floor, and you stare at it dumbly, breathing harshly through your mouth. 

“I grow impatient,” he mutters coldly in clipped Russian. “Isn’t that _right_? I expect an answer. What did you think I will kill you? No, no, my dear. Not yet. You’ve made a mess but it can be sorted. How severe your punishment is going to be, however, is entirely dependant on you.”

Swallowing thickly, you lift your eyes to his, “I won’t fail you again.”

Tarasov laughs again, and salutes you before drowning the half-full glass in one gulp. He exhales, looking rather pleased with himself. 

“Of course you won’t,” he hums pleasantly, and pats your injured cheek with heavy intent. “Because if you do, I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back till I call for you.” 

* * *

The knock on your door comes two days later.

You aren’t expecting guests so the first thing you do is grab your poisoned needles and your gun. 

Gripping the familiar weight in your palm, you cautiously approach the door, levelling the gun against the wood. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Your hand drops instinctively, and you crack the door open, only to find a familiar pair of dark eyes already staring at you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the door fully and John’s familiar stocky frame comes into view. 

He, in turn, takes a good minute to no doubt take in your bandaged shoulder and bruised face. Even though you added ice the moment you left Tarasov’s office, one half of your face is still swollen. Ugly, blotchy bruises litter your skin and you swallow shakily upon noting the hard, near frightening intensity in which John is taking in your injuries. 

“Why did you come?” you finally force out, and clear your throat when your voice cracks a few times. “Didn’t you have—”

“What happened?” John speaks instead, and there’s an icy undercurrent to his words you’re unused to hearing from him. 

Turning away, you walk deeper into the room, and John follows you silently. 

“I figured you would know. I’m the talk of the town,” you mutter dryly, and feel a stab of anger at the thought.

When you turn to face him, John’s expression is still oddly severe though his demeanour appears as calm as always. You’re not quite sure what to make of it. 

“I do know what happened on the mission,” he replies, his mouth a tight line, and voice dropping into almost whisper. “I want to know about _this_.”

He reaches out, and for a stupid—purely idiotic second—you think that he’s going to touch your face; maybe run his thumb over your tender jaw to soothe the pain. 

But John stops halfway and allows his hand to drop back to his side, patient and quiet as he waits for your explanation. 

There’s an odd tension in the air that you can’t quite pinpoint. The relief of seeing him, at knowing he cares enough to at least come and see you, is already enough. Which doesn’t explain why you feel a distinct stab of disappointment at the realisation that he’s not going to hold you or comfort you, regardless of how naive it would be to expect something like that from him. That hard demeanour of his is near impossible to crack through most of the time.

“Tarasov wasn’t happy,” you settle on the easiest explanation you can give him. “Reminded me that I will never fail him again or he will have you shoot me next time.”

John’s expression twists. “I—”

He cuts himself off and you smile sadly, wincing when you scabbed lip stretches too wide. You know what he was about to say. That he wouldn’t do it—that maybe he simply _couldn’t_. Even in the world of killers, there are grey areas no one likes to tread on. Friends, family, associates. 

But you also know the truth. 

You both work exclusively under Tarasov’s contract. John would have to do what he’s told regardless of his own feelings on the matter. And maybe even if he _does_ care, even if he considers you an actual friend, it won’t be enough to deliberately place himself in danger by showing disobedience. 

“It’s _okay_,” you say softly, and you wonder why you sound so sad without even meaning to. “We do what we’re told. We don’t ask questions. We just pull the trigger, right? It’s who we are. We’re made for violence and isn’t that fucking sad? We don’t even question it anymore, John. Do you think—”

His head tilts, his loose hair brushing against his forehead. “Do I think what?”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head, and give him another tiny smile. Somehow even ignoring pain is easier with him beside you. 

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

For a moment, it looks like John will say something else but he stops himself at last second and nods his head as if accepting your words. 

The distance between you feels like a ravine even while you spend the entire evening in the same room, breathing the same air. But perhaps that’s just the endless paradox between you.

* * *

It doesn’t happen overnight. Or days. Or even weeks. 

It’s _slow_. So much so that you don’t notice for a long, long time and by the time you do, it’s already painfully clear that there’s no going back. 

Much like the name John wears, much like the man himself, it creeps up on you. Little by little. Bit by bit.

There’s no groundbreaking moment, there are no fireworks. There’s just the _knowing_ that sits deep in the pit of your stomach. It’s a foolish, idiotic thing. You brush it aside because you know _better_. Because you’re not naive enough to hope for anything in a world like this. 

Hope is a dangerous thing, and you’ve had yours broken too many times to rely on it anymore. 

So you don’t.

You know not to expect good things anymore, to never try and rely on anything or anyone. Every good thing you’ve ever had has either died or been taken from you. 

So you really should have known that this would never last. 

* * *

Tarasov’s imposed “time out” lasts for three months. 

It marks the beginning of the end. 

And it starts with an accident that turns into a tragedy. 


	2. the game that plays us;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want him to fear you. And he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: strong violence and mentions of torture ahead, nothing super explicit on the latter.

“I’m surprised you’re alone.”

Your head lifts at the sound of his voice over the music.

John stands behind you in that familiar, overly calm manner of his that never seems to waver. The dark suit he wears seems to make him blend in with the darkness of the club as he nods his head towards the empty seat opposite to you in a silent question.

Your lips twitch upwards slightly, and you lean back in your own seat. “You don’t need to ask.”

John slides smoothly into the booth, and his obsidian eyes sweep over you once but the action is hardly sexual or makes you feel uncomfortable in any way. It’s a warming gesture, a protective one, and it makes something pleasant bloom in the pit of your stomach.

You’ve only been back in the great game for two months, and in that time Tarasov has only allowed you and John to work together once. He seems hellbent on breaking you in on solo missions. You aren’t sure if it’s his version of additional punishment but you find any thoughts of your boss beginning to fade as John gazes at you silently.

The singer on stage transitions into another song, her sultry voice dipping as a slower number begins. Winston, at least, knows how to choose his entertainment.

_I give him all my love, that's all I do._

“How’s Venice?” you ask eventually, and John blinks as if he’s been lost in thought. “Any trouble?”

John doesn’t miss the tinge of sarcasm in your voice and his mouth twitches into one of his almost-smiles. “No trouble. I’ve been back for a week.”

Your eyebrows jump and you shift in your seat. “And you didn’t drop by for a visit? Why I’m hurt.”

Something changes in John’s eyes then; it’s a subtle shift you only pick up on because you’re starting to know his tells, and your nerves prickle at the silent intensity of his gaze.

_And if you saw my love, you'd love him too._

“You seem to be making new friends,” he states, at last, a touch flatly, and this time your eyebrows rise in genuine surprise.

“The Italians,” you offer offhandedly, tapping your fingernails against the smooth wood beneath your hand. “They’re hardly my friends. The old man is even more unpleasant than Tarasov. His kids are promising though. Gianna likes you at least. Couldn’t shut up about you when she learned who I was. I think it made Cassian jealous.”

You don’t bother hiding the sardonic bite in your words, but John is not one to indulge in petty gossip so you don’t expect him to comment. He listens to you patiently though; the same way he always does, no matter how inconsequential the topic is, and it suddenly hits you just how much you’ve missed him.

It’s only been a week but the ache is like a dull throb that quakes your bones every time you move. Too often you have caught yourself wondering what John was doing or how his missions have been going. His presence here, now, is like a soothing balm you haven’t even realised you needed.

_A love like ours could never die._

Before you can change the topic, however, John speaks, “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”

The seriousness of his voice only makes his morose expression even more severe, and your teasing half-smile crumbles away. “Are they that dangerous?”

John’s expression gives nothing away but he does lean closer, his eyes sweeping over the other patrons in a knowing manner. “Everyone in our world is dangerous,” he states gruffly, his words soft.

“And so are we,” you comment lightly, your lips curving playfully, dangerously. “It would be unwise for people to forget that.”

The singer on stage leans closer into the microphone, her words hushed and sensual while the song progresses and you blink, leaning back in your seat.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” you speak up, finding it hard to talk all of a sudden. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you but…”

“It’s your birthday.”

He says it so simply and in that blunt manner of his, it’s like that fact somehow explains everything in the universe and you stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I—I didn’t realise you knew when my birthday even was,” you whisper over the growing lump in your throat. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated your birthday, or when anyone even bothered to remember it. So even though you have never taken much interest in celebrating it before, this feels different. Somehow, John knowing and coming to see you because it _is_ your birthday feels… “Was it Winston? I swear that man knows everything.”

_He gives me everything, and tenderly the kiss my lover brings, he brings to me._

But John doesn’t indulge in your line of inquiry. Instead, he reaches inside his jacket and takes out a black velvet box, placing it in front of you.

For a second, you feel your heart seize. 

Your suddenly clammy fingers squeeze tightly before you forcefully relax them and calmly reach across the table, taking the box into your hand.

Much to your surprise, it _is_ a ring. Just not the type most women would hope for.

It’s a viper. A silver, coiling thing that has beautiful detail engraved across its entire, curling length. The head sits slightly bent to the side, exposing the little gems in its eyes that reflect the exact same shade of your own.

For a long moment, you’re speechless, adrift. You stare at the ring in your hand as something warm simmers in your gut.

“Happy birthday.”

Your eyes lift to him. His expression has softened a touch, just slightly, but you imprint it in your mind. You hoard these moments—these rare, precious minutes with him when his and your guards are both down, and it truly _does_ feel like it’s just the two of you against the world.

One day, inevitably, when something goes wrong—and it always does—you will miss him so terribly. You will miss him like one misses the feeling of the sun on their skin, or how gentle breeze feels kissing your skin on a warm summer’s day.

You will miss him the way the sun misses the moon.

You will miss him because you love him.

And it makes you so very sad that you do.

_I know this love of mine will never die. And I love him, ooh._

* * *

“So then he says to me, he says—hey, are you listening to me?”

“Always.”

You bob your head happily, your arms still linked as John unlocks the hotel room door. You sway on your feet slightly and his grip on your tightens. The main reason you don’t drink is because you don’t trust the world you’re in nor the people in it. But you allowed yourself this indulgence tonight, and you wonder what it says about you that there’s a part of you that trusts John so completely that you don’t even hesitate.

It’s a simple truth to you.

John will keep you safe.

It’s not like you’re drunk, either. Yes, perhaps a bit tipsy but it’s been a while. These last few months have been soaked in blood and poison, not alcohol. A viper strikes without mercy or prejudice. They only leave devastation behind.

And that’s what you want. Devastation.

If only because you never want to give Tarasov a reason to lay a hand on you again. In fact, you want that same wariness he regards John with to be directed at you. You want him to hesitate, to shift in discomfort every time he thinks you will not be happy with what he has to say.

You want him to _fear_ you.

And he will.

He _will_.

The room is dark when you enter and John reaches for the light switch, kicking the door closed with the back of his foot. You lean against him for a moment—a purely selfish and self-indulgent few seconds in which you savour his warmth and unyielding strength before letting go. The world tilts to the right without John’s steadying grip on you but you still make it to the couch, falling onto it with a bounce and a loud giggle.

It feels good to laugh. You haven’t in a while and it feels almost foreign.

John is right behind you. Your dark, silent shadow. He doesn’t speak but his eyes gleam with amusement when you squint at him.

“I’m not drunk,” you grumble and John’s eyebrows rise.

“Uhu,” he grunts, watching your pathetic and clumsy attempt to take off your shoes.

Why is it easier to kill a man than take off these stupid things?

A moment later, another pair of hands join yours, carefully peeling your fingers away. Your breath hitches in your throat and the pleasant warmth in your blood turns into an inferno when your head lifts to see John kneeling before you. The slopes of his face are relaxed—almost gentle—while he patiently works on unclasping your shoes. His touch is featherlight, and yet it still manages to shoot bolts of lightning up your leg.

You stare at him wordlessly, caught in the moment. The ring on your hand gleams in the low light, and you bite your tongue to control the sudden urge to say something you know you will regret the moment you open your mouth.

Instead, you focus on the few rebellious strands of hair that brush against his forehead whenever he moves. You should tease him about it. His hair is getting long. Except you don’t mind it, at all. Biting back a shiver when his fingers grasp the back of your heel, you stare at his partially hidden eyes. They look so dark in this light. Merciless. A monster’s eyes that swallow every shred of light in the room.

Except they aren’t. Not to you.

In sunlight, they’re more golden brown than obsidian. You know because you’ve caught yourself looking one too many times, and they always struck you as beautiful.

God. When did you become so—

So _soft_. 

“When—” you start, and stop. Your tongue feels clumsy but you force yourself to say _something_. “When I was eight my parents they, uh, they moved us to Italy. I didn’t know what for back then. But we were on the run. I knew that much. We lived in Bulgaria before that, and I don’t think whatever my parents were involved in went that well. But, well, before my parents managed to make anything of themselves in Italy they really struggled. Most days we barely had anything to eat. My father stole often.”

John’s hands pause briefly, but he resumes his work without interrupting you. You’re grateful. Now that you’ve started talking, it feels like you can’t stop.

“That summer I went through a bit of a growth spurt. Well, of course, we didn’t have money for new clothes so my Mama stole for me,” you continue, your voice hitching in places. “And—and this one time I needed new shoes so badly because my old ones were falling apart. So she stole this beautiful blue pair for me. They had jewelled clasps and this pretty floral pattern and—it was the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. I loved them immediately. That is until I put them on. They were too _small_. And I, uh, I can recall it even now, my Mama’s face when she asked me if they fit. I could have told her the truth. But we had scraps for food and people in town were starting to whisper about our family. So I smiled at her and told her that they fit perfectly. She gave me this look…it was so _sad_. She hugged me tightly and neither of us spoke after that because we both knew that I was lying.”

John is looking at you now, listening intently. He looks both older and sadder all at once but you don’t point that out.

Instead, you wiggle your free toes and smile through the sting prickling your eyes. Your smile feels brittle when your eyes meet but you only stretch your lips further.

“All I can remember is the feeling of those beautiful shoes squeezing my toes till they were numb,” you whisper softly and chuckle harshly immediately after. A tear escapes and you wipe it off angrily. “My feet were bloody but I said _nothing_. My parents were keeping us alive, and the least I could do is keep my mouth shut and wait. But I swore to myself that one day I will never have to worry about being forced to wear shoes that are too small for me. Never feel trapped again. Tarasov thinks he knows me, thinks he _understands_ me. But he doesn’t. I’m scared of him, that’s true. But one day…_one day_ he will be the one to fear _me_.”

“I know.”

The laugh that escapes you sounds harsh, perhaps a touch shrill, but you love him so much at that moment. Love his easy, unwavering faith in you.

The nameless thing between you finally has a name and you shudder in both happiness and fear.

John rises to his feet with the elegance of someone who is in complete control of his body and extends his hand towards you. There is no hesitation when you grasp it in yours. He helps you stand but when he moves to let go, your own grip tightens. His hand is so warm that a selfish part of you doesn’t want to let go.

The Boogeyman. The monster you’re supposed to hide your children from.

You reach for his tie, pull harshly, and kiss him.

It’s a slow thing; shy and fragile, much like your feelings for him. At first, John doesn’t move. He remains still and silent, but when he finally does move, it’s equally as careful. Slow. His free hand comes to rest lightly against the small of your back and you shiver.

The kiss is only a simmering, slow joining of you and him that last no more than thirty seconds before he pulls away.

You’re gasping. Breathless. Suddenly hot all over. No amount of alcohol could ever make you feel like this. Shivering from such simple contact.

You’ve kissed people before, but they’re not John.

_No one_ could be John.

His fingers brush against the curve of your jaw, always so delicate and slow. You know how easily these hands can take lives. Which only makes his careful touch that much more thrilling.

It’s _pathetic_. How weak he makes you.

“We _can’t_,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and low, and his words slice through you like a hot knife. Your eyes snap open, and you haven’t realised that you’ve closed them till the exact moment you have to meet his regretful gaze. He looks conflicted, a deep frown twisting his features. His lips part and you hold your breath. “Maybe if things were…different.”

“_Different_?” you echo numbly, blinking, and pull away slowly, your eyes dropping to the floor. Your lips still tingle, the taste of him on your tongue, and you can’t inhale without remembering what it felt like to share oxygen with him. “Okay.”

“(Name)—”

“_Don’t._”

Your eyes lift to his, hard and unblinking. “I always knew nothing could ever happen between us. Not while Tarasov holds us tied to him. You don’t have to explain yourself. It was stupid of me to except anything from you.”

But it still stings. God does it _sting_.

John takes a step towards you but your hand snaps out, pressing against his chest and stopping him in his tracks. Against the black of his shirt, the ring on your finger gleams even brighter.

“Please,” you plead and hate yourself for being reduced to this, again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” he says firmly, and his hand comes to gently rest on top of yours.

Shaking your head, you jerk your hand away and—for the first time since you met him—you turn your back to him.

That foolish, naive girl that still lives deep down begs for him to say something, to turn you around and kiss you again. Tarasov and consequences be _damned_.

But John is a man of discipline, of honour, so when a few minutes later you hear his retreating footsteps and the soft closing of your hotel room door, you don’t react.

The pain, as always, comes later.

* * *

You don’t sleep.

You can’t.

It’s almost like your body sobered up in a span of softly whispered “we can’t” and John walking out of the door.

He wakes up at the crack of dawn. You leave long before that.

The shower you take is barely lukewarm but you can’t bring yourself to adjust it. Instead, you allow few silent tears to join the water going down the drain and try your hardest to control the sob that tickles the back of your throat.

_Down, down, down._

Getting changed is a dull blur, as is gathering your clothes and walking out of the door. John is only next door. A part of you considers stopping and letting him know that you’re leaving. But as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you immediately crush it to nothing.

The truth is that you’re not made of marble.

Seeing him now would just be torture.

So you walk past his door.

Charon, ever the professional concierge, doesn’t let his surprise show upon seeing you up so early.

He takes your details, takes your room key. He wants to ask, you know he does. You certainly look like a mess but you can’t force yourself to speak even when you usually would.

“We look forward to seeing you again very soon, Miss Vipress.”

You pause for a brief moment, contemplating.

But don’t reply before walking away.

* * *

Tokyo is, frankly, freezing for this time of year.

The cold nips at your nose and you shift in your spot on the floor, your joints creaking in protest. As time continues to pass without your mark making an appearance, your focus starts to waver.

If John were here he would tell you to never relax on a job.

_John_.

The mere thought of the name coils your stomach into an uncomfortable ball of bitter emotion. Perhaps you took the coward’s way out when you left without saying a word but who can blame you? It’s too hard. Too hard knowing that even if he feels something—he didn’t push you away immediately, he even kissed you _back_—he still can’t be with you. Your world is not made for silly daydreams of love and happiness.

That’s why you have stayed away.

Why you haven’t seen him in weeks, maybe even months. Time tends to blur when you go from one job to another and you’re glad for the distraction.

It’s better this way. Distance will do you good.

Last you’ve heard, John was back in New York because Tarasov has been planning something big for a while. Frankly, you’re just glad he gave you free rein for the time being.

That’s how you’ve ended up in Tokyo. Your rather handsome 1 million contract has been set up to take out some Yakuza boss that’s causing trouble to his competitors in Kyoto. One power-hungry man going after another. Some things never change.

But the pay is good and it’s a pretty clear cut mission so in hindsight, you can’t complain too much.

Except, your target is almost thirty minutes late now.

Unease prickles down your spine the longer you wait.

Something creaks behind you.

The first man drops dead before he comes anywhere near you, a poisoned needle making him twitch on the floor in agony.

But there’s more.

They appear like a swarm from every darkened corner of the alleyway. Somehow they know your exact location.

And they have come prepared.

Never before have you been as thankful for the foresight to bring enough poison to take down a small army as you are then. You let the suppressed gas canister do its work first, the dispersing poison inside making men and women alike drop dead to the floor. Their skin blisters and eyes haemorrhage from their blood vessels rupturing upon contact. The next stage is their lungs collapsing and you hope they die before that.

Despite your hope, most of them choke on air and blood, dying in agony.

The rest is a hail of bullets and blades.

You have the advantage of being immune to your own poison and dance through the carnage easily, knowing full well that on a windy night like this one the gas will only stay in the air for another few minutes at most. Then, it will disperse into a milder irritant. A pesky distraction at best.

A blade slices across your arm and you snarl low in your throat, your muscles aching from the strain of trying to hold back another assailant aiming for your jugular.

_Give yourself space._

A poisoned blade is slick in your hand. Wet from all the blood you’ve coated it in and you stumble back, slicing viciously. The figures in black have to climb over their dead comrades to reach you now, and you try to keep them back by releasing blade after blade, needle after needle of poisoned metal at them. Those that get close enough meet their end at the end of your fists and gun.

_Focus_.

Shoot, duck, reload, aim, throw, exhale.

Deep breaths. _Control the pain tearing through your split knuckles._

You focus on breathing, on alertness that makes your body tense so much your muscles—even well trained and strong—still strain under the pressure.

_Shoot, left, drop, slice, reload now._

The figures keep coming.

And _coming_.

Despair ceases your mind when you realise that if you stay in the alleyway, your chances of making it dwindle to nothing.

John’s stern voice goes devastatingly quiet in your head.

Whoever sent these people after you clearly didn't underestimate your abilities like so many have in the past.

Knees hitting the floor, you roll, slicing through the tendons on the man who just tried to gut you with his sword. The man crumbles, shouting in pain, and you grasp him by the neck, your knife sinking deep into the unguarded flesh. You drag a line, blood spilling and hug him to you, letting the hail of bullets hit his body instead. The man squirms before stilling, his gasps of pain ceasing forever.

In the dim light, you catch the look in his eyes.

He looks _scared_.

They always look scared.

There’s movement behind you and you turn sharply, but too late to stop the knock on your temple.

Your head spins as you drop to the side, kicking blindly. Your vision swims and you grasp your gun before firing. The first two shots miss but the third finally hits and you groan, scrambling to your feet.

Disorientated, you don’t react fast enough.

A bullet tears through your leg and you scream, crumbling to the floor. Then comes a kick to your stomach, making you curl into a ball and roll on the floor.

Your vision is white from agony.

Fingers covered in blood and shaking, you attempt to curl them into fists—attempt to reach for your leg and ebb the blood-flow.

Footsteps draw closer and you snarl, trying to open your eyes and see the face of the one who did this to you.

A kick to your side hits brutally and you roll onto your stomach, gasping for air. God, it’s so hard to _breathe_ through the agony travelling from up your leg and sides.

“Stop your squirming, bitch.”

The words are acidic in their bite, spoken in clear Japanese but twisted by an accent you can’t pinpoint.

You don’t listen, trying to regain your senses, knowing full well that it’s a matter of seconds before they put a bullet in your head.

But before you can do anything pain pierces through your shoulder, and you choke on your scream.

A blade.

A blade that has gone clean through your right shoulder, and currently creaking against the dirty pavement underneath you. Your blood looks black in this light and your head swims.

Blackness takes you before you can form another coherent thought. 

* * *

You live.

But the following days make you wish you hadn’t.

* * *

The man grins widely as he talks.

His name is Kishi. Or at least that’s what others call him.

He likes visiting you. Likes seeing you weak and beat, likes spinning tales about all the wonderful things they were still eager to try on you. Whenever he suspects you’re not listening to him closely enough, he has others beat you till you lose consciousness.

That’s the best scenario you can now hope for. When compared to their other _methods,_ being beaten is like being tickled. 

But you’re so thirsty it’s getting hard to focus on anything he’s saying.

A scream echoes from somewhere in the far distance, and your eyes flutter closed for a second.

Figuring out that you’re not the only one being kept here was the easy part. But realising that you’re in a remote location far from any urban activity that at least gives you a sliver of hope someone may stumble upon you has been a whole other mental blow. 

Torture is a wicked, ugly thing.

Human bodies are resilient though, and according to Kishi you’re their “guest of honour” which meant that after the pain came some deranged form of care.

They have decided to keep you alive for now, but you doubt that’s going to be a permanent arrangement. Eventually, they will either grow bored or the reason they’re keeping you here will expire. After that…

After _that_, there are a great many things that can happen to you. None of them pleasant. Most of them horrifyingly terrible and painful in fact.

Effectively, your continuous existence depends on getting out of here before that happens.

Easier said than done, of course. You’ve been bound from head to toe. You couldn’t so much as twitch without catching someone’s attention. Your muscles have long since cramped and gone numb from disuse as well as blunt trauma.

The only chance—if any—you have of getting out is…

You force your treacherous mind to quieten. Force yourself to banish the thought of the one person you could imagine missing you, perhaps even looking for you.

But that hateful voice in the back of your mind reminds you that there’s no reason why _anyone_ would care enough to look.

You are, as you’ve always been, _alone_.

* * *

“Enough.”

Kishi speaks in English which is rare.

Apparently, he finds the language ugly. Some delirious, pain-riddled part of you can’t blame him for thinking that despite the fact that he’s responsible for your torture.

Your teeth clatter loudly in the now quiet room, and your lungs rattle with every deep inhale of air.

It hurts to breathe. Things blur in front of you and you try to blink the droplets of water still stinging your eyes.

It’s cold. It’s so, so _cold_.

“Still fighting, aren’t we?” Kishi mutters thoughtfully, this time in Japanese, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t know bitches came this tough.”

Few men chuckle but Kishi doesn’t laugh. Kishi only stares.

His eyes are dark.

So dark that if you focus on _just_ them you can almost imagine that—

A shaky breath escapes you but you don’t speak. You’ve lost the ability for sarcasm and humour days ago. Especially after you’ve been shown just how much more severe these sessions can get if you show disrespect.

“Leave us.”

The men shift; surprised, wary. “Master?”

Kishi’s eyes leave yours, and his face twists into a sneer when he faces his men. He’s in his late forties at least, and you can tell from the lines etched deep into his face that this is a familiar expression. His face knows this hatred, this cruelty, as if it’s second nature.

“I said _fuck off_!” 

The men obey because they’re afraid, not because they respect him. In fact, they can’t leave fast enough as the metal door groans shut and you stay slumped in your spot.

Your hands are still bound, wrists raw and blistered, but your feet aren’t. They simply dumped you in this creaky chair after they were finished. Your soaked clothes cling to your skin and you shiver again, your body trembling from the effort to hold yourself together.

Kishi stares.

Your throat bobs when you swallow, waiting for him to say something. He always speaks first. That’s a fact you learned early on. After you spoke first once—sarcasm flowing free and your mocking tone making others cringe—Kishi punched you so hard that your teeth rattled upon contact, one of your back molars breaking free. Blood dribbled down your chin after, the impact still vibrating through your skull and neck.

A rough, warm hand touches your jaw and you jerk back to reality.

A phantom memory of another warm hand touching you in exactly the same manner mangles your heart to pieces, leaving a fresh bleeding wound in its place.

“John.” 

It’s a strangled, weak whisper but this time more than your physical body aches. Longing and terror mix dangerously till for the first time in days—maybe weeks, _months_ for all you know—you feel tears fill your eyes.

The fingers against your jaw tighten till you whimper in pain.

“Who is this _John_ you long for?” Kishi questions curiously, his hand jerking your head from side to side while he inspects you like one would a slab of meat. Clinical, indifferent. “You plead for him in your dreams. Whisper his name when the pain gets too much. Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re _dead_ to the world. You’re nothing but a piece of meat for me to do with whatever I please. I’ve been keeping my men away from you. But perhaps…”

He makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat before he throws his half-smoked cigarette to the floor. His rough fingers slide away from your jaw and down the slope of your neck, causing you to jerk in your seat. Kishi laughs at that; a cruel, empty sound as his eyes lift to you.

“What’s the matter, huh?” he mocks, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you going to plead for your John? Some weak, pathetic _nobody_? Did he give you this? Is that why you fight so hard, eh?”

Kishi grabs something from his inner jacket pocket, and awareness slams into you when your foggy mind registers what you’re looking at.

Your ring. _John’s_ ring.

A small breath escapes you, and your swollen fingers twitch.

Kishi’s smug sneer sparks something in your gut—something hard and cold and _furious_. When you reach for the familiar coil of the viper, his other hand slaps yours away harshly. Your teeth grit from the shooting burn but you stay silent, obedient. Being reckless now will not do you any good. 

But you’re grateful for the pain too because for the first time in days you feel _awake_. Your body is weak and broken in so many ways _but_—

Your hands are bound tightly, but your feet _aren’t_.

And more importantly, you’re _alone_. For the first time since you’ve been taken, you’re alone in the room with this man.

_I don’t need anyone. Not when I’m the most dangerous one here._

Biting back a smile, you let your head to loll back and stare at him.

He notices your expression and his features darken.

“Closer.”

You don’t recognise your own voice; it’s faint and frayed around the edges but that doesn’t surprise you. Your cracked lips hurt from simply speaking but you don’t regret that either. You stopped talking a long time ago, and Kishi hates it. He wants you to engage in his sick little game.

That’s why he leans closer.

Because he believes that you are weak—or perhaps he doesn’t think that you’re weak at all, but that he’s managed to somehow strip away your killer instincts instead.

His breath stinks of tobacco and you force your expression to relax when you come face to face.

“Closer, please.”

Kishi’s hand presses against your waist suddenly, eager, his breaths growing more shallow with every second. Sickness squeezes your already cramped stomach but you hold your breath to calm down.

_Just a little bit more._

Kishi’s hand is rough as he explores, his lips eagerly pressing against the shell of your ear and you _smile_.

“That nobody is called _John Wick_.”

Kishi freezes as if struck by lightning.

And that’s all the time you need.

The kick you deliver to his knee makes him slump against you but you don’t register the moment your teeth sink into his neck.

You don’t register the agonising pain as he tries to free himself by jerking you back by your hair.

There’s just the sensation of hot blood in your mouth as you _rip_.

Kishi stumbles back, gasping, helplessly grasping onto his neck where his life force is leaking far quicker than he can stop it. Your ring falls to the floor with a sharp _cling!_ and you follow its path with your eyes.

A knife appears in Kishi’s hand and you jerk to the side, the chair crashing with you as the man topples over to the floor behind you.

Your legs don’t obey you at first but with a scream of frustrated pain, you still manage to kick him in the head. Scrambling on your knees, you hurry towards the fallen knife. Your fingers skim over it but a weight falls on top of you, pulling you back.

Everything cries with agony as you squirm wildly, screaming into the dirt as Kishi tries to push your face into the ground. Your bound hands feel like a deadweight but you only fight harder, trying to throw him off. He punches your barely healed right shoulder and you scream again. Your fingers—

Jerking, you slam the back of your head into his face. Kishi shouts something you can’t make out but it gives you just enough time to turn around and bury the knife into his neck. His movements cease as he stares down at you blankly. Shocked.

You jerk the knife out, blood pouring, and stab him again, deeper. With all the hate and hurt roaring in your ears, you barely hear his chuckle before he slumps over you. The weight of his body makes you cry out and breathing heavily, you awkwardly push him off. Kishi, now eternally still, collapses beside you with a heavy thud.

For a while, you lay there unmoving, staring up at the ceiling, convulsing from both adrenaline and terror.

There’s blood all over your mouth, _inside_ your mouth.

There’s just enough time to forcefully turn around before you throw up. The lumpy rice from last night looks as pathetic as you feel, and your fingers sink into the cold dirt beneath you, tears stinging your eyes. Some still escape and you scream again, this time in frustration and rage.

You want to get up, but you _can’t_.

You’re too weak, too exhausted.

_So weak, so pathetic, you couldn’t save your family and now you can’t even save yourself. _

Tears come even harder, prickling your already bruised skin even more.

A glint of silver suddenly catches your eye and you still.

Your ring. _John_.

“Master, sorry to disturb you but everything went so quiet—”

The man halts in his tracks, stricken by the scene before him. Of his master laying in a pool of dirty blood. 

Your mind goes crystal, terrifying sort of _still_.

The bloody knife in your hands leaves them so fast the newcomer doesn’t have enough time to even react. It doesn’t stick like you wanted though—it’s too heavy, your hands are bound and you’re too exhausted and disorientated to throw accurately. Despite all that, luck is on your side, and it slices against one side of the newcomer’s throat, cutting through the fragile skin like soft butter. Blood rains freely, almost like its been eager to escape its host, and you fall back onto the dirt, gasping in pain. Cold sweat covers your forehead and you ghost your fingers gingerly over your ribs.

It’s too hard to breathe, but broken ribs would leave you in mind-numbing sort of agony. Cracked, then? Or bruised?

_Inhale, exhale._

The newcomer continues choking on his blood. Kishi is still.

Ferocious, savage sort of satisfaction blooms when you hear the man finally fall silent. You have never—not once—taken joy in taking lives before. You always made light of your job because you _had_ to. Because too often it felt like if you didn’t make a joke or tried to lighten the situation, you would drive yourself mad with the cruelty of it all.

Digging your fingers into the dirt, you turn onto your stomach.

Your legs feel like jelly but if you can’t walk, then you’ll crawl to freedom.

First though—

First, between muffled curses of discomfort and even more tears, you craw your way towards the silver ring laying on the ground.

It’s covered in dirt and blood. 

You grab it in a fist of dirt and it feels like a _victory_, like your love for John. Because it’s both sweet and painful all at once and you blink rapidly. Dirt crumbles from beneath your fingers and you put the ring on.

Or try to.

Your bruised, swollen digits are not what they were when John first gave you this ring.

They shake so badly that for a moment you can’t help but think that it’s useless to even try. Helplessness swells inside your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gnashing your teeth till you feel your gums starting to hurt.

Then one centimetre at the time, you force the ring onto your finger.

It _hurts_.

But everything is hurting so you don’t open your eyes till it’s done and when it is you stare at your hand in low light. Seeing the ring back where it belongs fills you with the energy you needed to crawl back onto your knees. Digging your fingers in, you half-crawl, half-stumble towards the now dead guard. You don’t bother to look at him because you need to get out of here first. Sooner or later someone else is bound to come looking and you have no time to waste.

It takes considerable effort to unhook the small, well-fashioned blade from the guard’s belt with your hands still tied. But eventually, it comes loose, and you grapple for the handle, awkwardly twisting your hands till the blade kisses your bindings delicately. It takes almost five minutes of painful hacking until the binds finally come loose. Your wrists look mangled; angry, red lines cutting deep into the delicate flesh.

You throw up again. Or try to, at least. Your empty stomach cramps painfully, jerking your whole body from its central gravitational point. Forehead pressed deep into the dirt, you calm yourself and gather strength in your core. 

Then, sticking the short blade deep into the ground, you use it as a crutch.

Your knees give out almost immediately, making you fall face-first into the dirt again. Your still healing leg aches terribly and you feel more tears in your eyes.

_Weak_.

“Stop crying,” you croak to yourself, bitter and angry about your own inability. “_Stop crying._”

Your hand curls into a tentative fist, John’s ring pressing into your worn skin and gritting your teeth once more, you force yourself to rise to your knees.

Kishi’s knife is the first priority after the small sword. It makes you feel better, more like yourself, to be armed once again.

Free.

For now.

Blades you know intimately well. A part of you wishes you could grab the poison they took from you but there’s no time for that.

Swiping your forearm over your eyes, you inhale deeply, ignoring the crackling in your lungs. Then, you rise.

Your knees wobble again, every muscle straining.

Short, wheezy breaths slip free but you don’t care about the fact that you sound like you’ve just ran a marathon.

There’s only the end goal.

Get out, get out _now_.

One foot in front of another. It’s hard to breathe and it’s even harder to walk.

But you keep walking.

Step by step.

You want to see John again. Even if—

Stumbling out of the door, you stare at the dark corridor to either side of you. They always bring you from the left side which leads deeper into the underground facility. Surely that means that going right will lead you to some semblance of safety.

Hope is a dangerous thing. But right now it’s all you have. Because without it you might as well go back and lay down beside Kishi and wait for your own death.

Every step is a varying degree of agonising, but your shoulder presses against the wall as you continue moving. It’s a slog and your head spins with every clumsy step. The taste of blood lingers too and you heave once more. Nothing comes up. Small mercy.

Commotion.

You almost fall over again in your hurried attempt to stop.

Have they figured out you’re gone already?

There are no cameras in the “fun room” as Kishi used to call it. But no—no, you realise in dazed confusion, the commotion isn’t coming from behind you but from the direction you’re heading towards.

It’s so close you can hear the sounds of a struggle from just around the corner. Both the blade and the knife tremble in your hands but you wait for your chance, listening intently.

The telltale sound of what has to be a body hitting the ground reaches your ears, and light footsteps move in your direction. The moment whoever it is rounds the corner and makes themselves visible, you’re going to slice their arteries open.

The person draws closer, closer, closer.

_Now_.

You lunge the moment a silhouette rounds the steep corner, your knife and sword raised.

But the figure reacts faster, slamming your body back against the wall, excruciating grip on your sore wrists. You feel the blades slip free from your hands and fall to the floor.

You stare.

The figure stares, too.

Then, a raspy, hysterical giggle forces itself from out of you.

It seems like you’re wrong and you never did make it out of the fun room. Maybe you died during the torture or Kishi gutted you like a pig during your fight. Or perhaps the guard _did_ move fast enough and you’re now long dead.

It would certainly make more sense than seeing John right in front of you.

_Here_. After all this time.

The thought makes you laugh again; a bubbling, hysterical sound and you don’t realise you’re crying till John’s horrified features begin to blur.

That’s funny, too. After all he’s done, after all you’ve seen together, it’s hilarious to think that it’s here—now—that he looks so horrified. This is hardly the worst thing he’s seen.

His hands drop away. “(Name)—”

He sounds hoarse, and so terribly sad.

For some reason, something odd sticks out about him. Your shaking hand reaches out and tugs on a loose strand of his raven hair. “Your hair has gotten long,” you whisper and laugh again, choked. “It looks really g-good.”

You don’t remember losing consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s more where that came from~ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	3. butterfly wings in a jar;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His lips shape your name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get cosy and grab yourself a snack cause this bad boy is 14k+ of some serious shit going down. Enjoy! <3

You don’t remember much.

There are flashes of agony. Even more flashes of John’s face.

From what you later learn, the doctor worked on you for six hours straight.

A part of you wonders what it must have looked like to others: John in his usual sharp suit and expression severe enough to make lesser men scurry away in fear, and you bleeding and unconscious in his arms.

Tokyo Continental is silent as a graveyard when you finally come around. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re on the top floor, or perhaps because it seems to be the middle of the night.

Someone you assume to be the doctor—a short, stout woman with thinning silver hair and a fixed scowl—regards you critically when she notices your tiny twitches. She says something loudly in what you think is Taiwanese but your mind is too foggy to fully comprehend what language she’s using.

But then, you realise that she isn’t talking to you after all but rather to someone that steps into your line of sight, his gaze drilling.

John looks more dishevelled than you’re used to seeing. His tie is missing and there are creases in his dirty white shirt that speak of an eventful last 24 hours at least.

His lips shape your name.

Your cheeks hurt but you still manage a faint, relieved smile before everything fades once again.

* * *

“Stop moving, girl.”

A girl. That’s funny. No one has considered you a girl for a long time. To be a girl is to be pure and innocent, to be good and kind. You’re _none_ of those things—not anymore.

You can’t force a single muscle in your face to so much as twitch in an attempt to show your amusement. Words burn against the back of your mind but they, too, fail to come. The silence is, perhaps, made even worse by John who stands like a watchful shadow in the corner of the room, observing you silently.

You’re not sure whose silence is more telling: yours or his.

The needle sinks into your skin again and it takes every last shred of self-control not to flinch. There’s a terrible urge in you to turn around and snap the old woman’s arm in half. The pain is slight in comparison to what you had to go through in the last ten days of captivity.

Just ten days.

Only ten.

Is it possible for ten days to feel so agonisingly long?

Clearly yes.

Shuddering, you allow yourself to flinch when the needle sinks into your skin this time.

“I said—”

For a split second, you’re not in the hotel room at all. You’re back underground. You’re back with Kishi and his touch still staining your skin—his hot, thick blood flooding your mouth and dirt smeared across your face.

Your fingers wrap around the woman’s neck ready to crack every bone in it before you’re sharply jerked back.

The scent and heat of the body holding you back are familiar but a strangled, manic, “_Don’t touch me!_” still tears out of you so loudly the doctor jumps.

She looks mortified as she gapes at you. Then, even worse, her weathered features crease with concern, with _pity_.

John’s arm tightens around your waist, and even though pain is prominent and twinges from every muscle and bruise, you still put up a fight. It doesn’t last long though.

Kishi fades, as does the fun room. The water and the electricity and the pain, the _pain_, the **_pain_**…

“You’re _safe_.”

John’s voice is barely a murmur against your ear and you slump against him. You’re only standing because he’s holding you up, anchoring you. Maybe because he pities you too—

_Why won’t he? You’re so weak._

Once that voice sounded like your old school bully, then Tarasov, Kishi—

Now, it just sounds like _you_.

John mutters something in Taiwanese in that low, calm voice of his and you hear the doctor leave hurriedly.

It’s so quiet.

John doesn’t talk, he simply turns you around and patiently leads you towards the bed. He notices how you struggle to sit down, and holds your hand while his other stays around your waist, supporting you. Your hands are shaking so badly, you push your palms between your knees, lacing your fingers together.

Whatever will come out of John’s mouth next will be kind, you know that.

So, because you can’t stand the way he’s looking at you, you speak first, “Are they dead?”

John sits down beside you. The stretch of silence between you is painful, leaden with things unsaid. Eventually, his fingertips touch your unfinished shoulder and the tentativeness of his touch hurts more than the actual wound.

A part of you wants to ask him if it _is_ pity. Another part of you tries to imagine what he must have felt. How you would have looked to him when he found you: bleeding, bruised, clothes soaked, covered in blood, and mud smeared all over your body.

You must have looked like a nightmare—an awful, broken thing who lost her mind to days of torture.

“Yeah,” he intones icily, his touch a stark contrast to the tone of his voice. “They’re all dead.”

Relief is the first emotion.

Second is, predictably, angry disappointment.

Third, surprise.

Tilting your head in John’s direction, you lock his eyes with yours. In that moment, you _do_ see the Boogeyman. Baba Yaga. You see the reason he is feared when to you all he’s ever been is John. Just John. _Your_ John. Except, of course, he’s not really—not even at all.

“_Pity_.”

Talking hurts too. Your voice is now reduced to a gritty, uncomfortable drawl.

Another few minutes pass in silence. There’s a thousand things you want to say and yet, you can’t seem to find the ability to form words that once came so easily.

The needle is slower, kinder, when John is the one doing the work and normally you would have joked about him making a mess by now. You don’t. He notices, of course.

“Did they—”

He cuts himself off. Frustration, rage, sadness; they flash through his expression so quickly you almost miss them before he rearranges his features into a familiar impassive mask.

There’s a lump in your throat. You know exactly what he wants to know. After all, you’ve been the one to remind him what happens to those who fail to protect themselves.

“One tried,” you force out, every word choked out with enough pain to still John’s hands. “I ripped—_I ripped his throat out_.”

It feels disgusting saying it, acknowledging that you’ve been forced to resort to animalistic instincts in order to survive, to live, to see _him_ again.

Your ring gleams, still dirty, but it’s not like you can remove it for cleaning since the swelling hasn’t gone down yet. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

“You survived,” John states, his voice empty of judgement, empty of contempt. If anything, it’s full of terrible sort of understanding, and his simple acceptance of what you have done—of what you had to give up to be here—makes you feel warm for the first time since you’ve been taken. “You _survived_.”

“What if I didn’t?” you whisper, looking past his shoulder and a tremor shakes you. “I don’t feel like myself, John, I feel—I _don’t_—”

He doesn’t try to feed you false, hollow words to make you feel better and you’re immensely glad for it. He knows you better than that, and you know him enough to never believe something like that from him.

Instead, John finishes fixing your torn stitches and helps you get more comfortable in the bed. He does this is silence, your eyes occasionally meeting as if he’s trying to gauge how you’re feeling, if you’re still present in the moment with him.

These last three days have been lost to bouts of fear and anxiety that you haven’t escaped the underground after all; it now haunts your every waking moment.

Once that’s done, John sits on top of the covers beside you. He places his arm around your shoulders without a sound, and you press your lips together to stop them from quivering.

_I’m here_, his touch seems to say, _and I’m not going anywhere._

He stays with you through the night. Simply holding you, and you lose count of the number of tears you shed until the sun kisses the horizon.

* * *

Tears of hurt, pain, fear and despair stop quickly enough.

But in their place blooms a slow, poisonous sort of numbness.

* * *

“You heal fast.”

The doctor regards you with a shrewd expression that speaks of her own wariness at being in the same space as you. She’s only been coming back because you can’t imagine John left her with much of a choice.

You regard her coolly in return.

It’s not that you’re ungrateful for her help but everything feels raw and delicate; everything from your mind to your skin, to your very essence. It’s hard not to snap at any unfamiliar touch. It’s even harder trying to smother the deadly instinct that screams at you that everything and everyone will hurt you.

_Not John. John will never hurt me._

_Oh? Where was he when they held you in the room with no air? Where was your John then?_

_He came for me. He came_—

_Far, far too late._

You exhale harshly, your shoulders curling defensively, stricken.

John meets your gaze from across the table in a silent question.

_Let her check on you, _his dark eyes plead.

_What if I can’t?_

Your eyes slide away from him, but you reluctantly hold out your arm out for the older woman to check. She hesitates, and rightfully so. Last time you almost broke her wrist. The time before that? Her neck. Then her leg, and once, you almost took her eye out with a syringe, too.

_Deep trauma_, she told John in heavy English the one time they had no choice but to sedate you and thought you were unconscious, _she suffers because her mind refuses to let go. She no longer feels safe. You must stay with her, boy. Let her heal._

The woman works quickly to check your body, and you’re grateful for it.

It goes well for a while. That is until her fingers press too hard against your healing bullet wound, and your fist slams against the armrest, a helpless snarl twisting your mouth.

The doctor wisely staggers back, and you follow, your legs quaking when you stand too quickly.

John’s fingers curl delicately around your forearm, steadying, and you gasp for breath.

“I—I can’t,” you choke out, pressing your hand against your mouth, your voice a stifled mess. “I’m—”

Your chest feels tight, your stomach burns like it’s full of acid, and for a moment you feel like you might throw up again. Like the terror raging through your body will burn you from inside out till nothing but smouldering embers remain.

Your mouth is full of Kishi’s blood again and you’re choking, choking, _choking_—

John’s voice is the same low, comforting baritone when he places his hand against the curve of your face, directing your frantic stare to him.

The hatred that blooms in your chest is stronger, however, and you pull away from him, lurching towards the bathroom instead.

By the time the panic finally subsides, it’s night again and you only hate yourself more.

* * *

Sleep is hard to come by.

John still keeps you company though.

It’s been almost two weeks since Kishi. Your body is on a mend but peace of mind is not so easily found.

From the corner of your eye, you spot John checking his phone yet again.

He’s been doing that a lot lately. More so than you’ve ever seen him do before.

“Tarasov?”

John stills, his head lifting as he looks up at you in surprise.

It’s rare for you to speak after a nightmare so John is used you letting tranquil quiet keep you both company instead.

“Not this time,” he replies shortly, but there’s an odd tilt to his voice that makes you peel your eyes away from the large window and focus on him instead. “But he’s been informed about what happened.”

Those words sink in slowly, somehow even slower than your poison usually does.

“Is that so?” you remark tightly, and there’s something sharp and acidic about your own tone that catches you off guard. “And what did you tell him? That his little slave is _broken_?”

“You’re _not_ broken.”

The firmness of John’s voice makes your glare focus on him instead. From nothingness, there’s a sudden, violent explosion of irrational anger in your gut.

“Is that why you watch me like I’m some wild animal?” you hiss angrily, your voice dropping to the point of cracking. “Is that why you keep checking your phone day in and day out? Like you rather be anywhere _else_? I rather not be a burden or a pity case to you, thanks. Just _go_.”

John frowns; a faint, disappointed thing and it makes you feel less angry and more…more lost, _stupid_.

Trapped. Always _trapped_.

Be it your life, your body, or your mind.

He saved you, he’s helping you right now when he doesn’t have to, and _this_ is how you repay him?

The irrationality of your own anger embarrasses you, and you turn away from him swiftly, hoping he hasn’t noticed your wet eyes in the dim light.

“I’m not going anywhere, (Name),” he states, firm and insistent, and you cringe. Why is he _still_ being kind to you?

_Do you love me as I love you? Is that it?_

Your lips part and those words are right _there_, ready to be spoken. But something holds you back. _Something_ is always holding you two back, or so it seems.

John’s phone buzzes again. You look at him, expectant.

“It’s not him,” John repeats, and you try to figure out what the slight catch in his voice means. He doesn’t sound angry or disappointed. “But if you want—”

“I want to see him.”

His expression falters, brows pinching in a tight line that showcases his disapproval of your idea already. His clear hesitance says everything you need to know.

A scoff fills the room, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, John. You’re avoiding him.”

“I’m not,” he argues but it rings false.

Your eyes return to the window, to the street below you. A gaggle of schoolchildren must be coming back from cram school and you watch them with detached sort of interest. Three people—two boys and a girl—walk in front, laughing and discussing something with that wild, feverish enthusiasm you can faintly recall too. Close behind them walks a couple, their hands laced together and eyes only for each other. The scene makes something pang in your chest; and acute, familiar ache.

From this high up you can just barely make out their faces, and you distantly wonder what they’re talking about, what is the thing that’s bringing them so much joy. If they’re really as happy as they look, or if it’s fake. They may breathe the same air you do, but they couldn’t be further away from you. To them, you only exist in movies and stories. You’re a shadow; a thrilling tale they share in their friend group, a faceless nobody. With that realisation comes a terrible sort of loneliness and your eyes flutter shut.

_You’re dead to the world._

For the first time, Kishi’s words ring true.

* * *

Despite your many arguments, John still manages to put off the trip back to New York for another two weeks.

He even employs the doctor to drill you with the many reasons why you can’t go just yet.

Still healing, still need more rest, still not sleeping enough.

_Still, still, still._

They might as well say you’re too weak and call it a day.

You’re not resentful with John though. You know he’s trying his hardest to shield you from what will be an undoubtedly epic explosion of Tarasov’s anger.

Your fingers twist in your lap and it’s near impossible to not fidget. Most of your physical bruises may have faded in the last month, but you know there’s still a mile and a half to go before you’re physically back to your old form.

At least you no longer fly into mindless fits of rage that made you attack the doctor trying to tend to you in the first place. Despite that, sitting through entire check-up is still an endlessly arduous task.

A warm, large hand lands on yours and you jump. Turning, you meet John’s stare and force yourself to relax. His dark eyes are softer than usual though he doesn’t say anything. His fingers stay on top of yours, keeping your own still. Without a word, he’s still able to pick up on your poorly veiled distress.

_I love you._

It tickles the back of your throat but you don’t dare to say it out loud, not _now_ of all times.

The closer you get to Tarasov’s office the harder it becomes to keep calm.

You recall the last time you visited this place, and you can recall in an even sharper detail how that meeting ended. How you’ve been so sure that you were walking to your death. But that was then.

What about now? What will he do _now_?

The taxi rolls to a stop in front of an all too familiar building, and John reaches into his pocket to pay but the cabby only shakes his head. “Free of charge this time, sir Wick,” he insists, and the older man’s eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror. “Welcome back Miss Vipress. Mr Winston sends his regards.”

John makes a small noise at the back of his throat and you blink, confused.

“Thanks?” 

The cabby grins, a little awkward, but nods his head.

The journey to Tarasov’s office is more nerve-wracking than you expected. A part of you has assumed that after everything you’ve gone through in Tokyo, this will be easy in comparison, but it doesn’t feel easy _at all_.

Every inch of your body feels like a livewire.

Some deeper cuts that are still healing ache dully with every too sudden twitch of your body. John is beside you, a constant you’re more grateful for than ever, and you can’t stop yourself from grabbing his arm when Tarasov’s office door looms in the distance.

John stops immediately, turning to face you.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says quietly before you even open your mouth to speak, and you hate the fact that a part of you immediately wants to agree. “We can come back another time.”

“No,” you shoot back quickly—too quickly—and you both know it’s because you’re wavering. “Will you…?”

His features smooth and he dips his head. “I’ll be there.”

Stepping into Tarasov’s office is like stepping back in time. Suddenly, you’re years younger in your tiny, damp Moscow flat, facing Tarasov and his armed guards as you cook dinner through silent tears. You recall how Tarasov’s jovial voice washed over you as he explained—in great, visual detail—how your father died begging and your mother remained strong till the end.

One second, you’re still in that flat but then you’re back here, in this office, but only months prior. Taste of copper in your mouth as Tarasov pats your bruised cheek with a lingering smile.

_I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head._

Back then it sounded less like a warning and more like a promise.

A price to pay for failure.

Tarasov’s face suddenly comes into view and time seems to screech to a halt.

Fear, panic, anxiety—

It feels like someone is opening up your ribcage and scooping out all the emotions that live there one by one with frightening efficiency.

A sort of hush falls over you as you stand there staring at him blankly.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t force a single emotion to the surface. Fear that has once crippled you in front of this man, seems to have up and vanished like smoke.

John is speaking. Tarasov is too. His guards shift when you look at them. You recognise one of them. He was there when Tarasov beat you. Your lips curl into a faint snarl.

“What I need to know is how useful she will be—”

“I can still kill,” you speak up, but don’t recognise your own voice. “If that’s what you’re so worried about.”

Tarasov falls quiet, peering at you like he’s never seen you before. His eyes narrow in concentration before he glances towards John who stands stoic beside you. Then the Russian’s gaze goes back to you. He places the expensive cigar back into his mouth and hums in thought. The motion eerily reminds you of Kishi and a shiver crawls up your spine.

He regards you like one may regard a vicious animal, and he’s a lot less subtle about it than John is. His fleeting looks are at least laced with genuine worry as well. Tarasov simply looks at you like one would look upon broken goods. Judging their worth in that familiar, clinical manner.

“How long?” he rolls out his letters in what now feels like jarring Russian. “Before you can be back on the field?”

“Three months.”

“A week.”

Your head snaps towards John but he’s looking straight at Tarasov who exhales a puff of smoke and chuckles.

“Now, now, John,” he chides, leaning back in his chair. “We both know that’s not practical for business. The girl has already wasted me enough time and made a mess in Tokyo.”

John doesn’t expand on his argument for three months though. John simply stands there, unmoving, a looming shadow while minutes crawl by in a tense stalemate.

Much to your surprise, Tarasov’s amused smile fades first.

He’s _uneasy_. Truly and openly.

_Afraid_.

And that thought seems so ludicrous that you want to dismiss it immediately, except you _can’t_ because the truth is right in front of you.

“A month,” you propose instead, absentmindedly fiddling with your ring.

Tarasov doesn’t look at you right away—in fact, it’s almost like he’s more worried about looking away from John in case John will leap at him the moment he does. Prey and predator. The comparison gives you an immense surge of smug satisfaction. But when the man does, eventually, reluctantly move his attention in your direction your face is fixed in an unmoving mask as well. Tarasov, despite his steely nerves and well-known ruthlessness, looks taken aback by this entire exchange and is doing a poor job of masking his surprise.

“A month,” he agrees reluctantly.

And then, for the first time since coming into his employment, you turn around and walk out of the room without waiting for dismissal.

John follows you without a word.

Tarasov doesn’t stop either of you.

* * *

Burying your face in a plush pillow, you sigh.

Being back in the New York Continental is a bit like being back home. Not that you’ve ever had a home for longer than a few years at the time, but the feeling still burrows under your skin.

You never thought you will get to see it again.

Your eyes crack open and you watch John move around the room. Neither of you has brought up what transpired inside Tarasov’s office only hours ago. Truth be told, it’s still hard for you to determine what exactly _did_ happen. All you do know is that Tarasov has never looked at you like _that_.

Like he was actually seeing you. Like, for the first time, he regarded you as something more than a nuisance to be dealt with.

“Let’s run away.”

John stops in his tracks, his broad back facing you.

Your words are innocent enough, almost playful, but when John turns to face you, you realise that he didn’t take them as such.

“Run away?” he echoes, his tone flat. “Where would we go? The rules—”

“Fuck the rules,” you say, foolishly drunk on the faint glimmer of a dream you can almost see in front of you. “We could get away from it all. From _everyone_. Didn’t you say that’s what you wanted once?”

John appears stricken, and you feel your eyebrows pinch downwards at the look on his face.

“There’s no running from the High Table,” he replies, and the stiffness of his words surprises you. “You know that.”

Your lips part to reply but before you can do so, the sound of John’s phone buzzing rings through the room. He pulls it out right away, and you feel a sting in your chest at his deliberate ending of what you wanted to be a serious conversation.

You watch him carefully, and feel yourself swallow when you note how the slopes of his face soften at whatever he sees on the screen. You’ve been so sure that you’re the only one capable of doing that to him. Of making him appear this unguarded, this—

_Loving_.

“I have to do something,” he says, at long last, but it sounds distant in your ears, fragmented. “Will you be alright by yourself for a bit? If you want I can send—”

“Just go, John. _Dear God_,” you mutter under your breath as you snuggle into your pillow, trying to mask your uncertainty. “I can handle a few hours by myself, I’m not a toddler.”

“I’m surprised. Seems like you managed to fool me,” John replies dryly, and you close your eyes, flipping him off with a faint smile.

“Stuff it, old man.”

Silence greets your words. After another minute of waiting for a reply, you open your eyes to check if he left, and that’s when you find him staring at you from the doorway.

You can’t pinpoint his expression. But there’s something in it that coils your stomach with unease.

“_What_? What is it?”

_Why is he_—

“It’s nothing,” an easy and obvious lie.

You sit up slightly, leaning on your elbow and regard him frankly, “Then why are you looking at me like that?” you demand, narrowing your eyes in his direction.

For a brief second, you think John will tell you what’s on his mind. But then his lips press into a tight line, and he looks away as if settling on a different decision. The clear conflict on his face only fuels your confusion. John rarely lets anything slip by—rarely allows you to see anything besides the cool professionalism he radiates.

“I’ll be back soon.”

The hotel room door closes with a soft _click_ and you fall back onto your pillow, staring up at the ceiling as his footsteps fade down the hallway.

_Why were you looking at me like you’re saying goodbye?_

The feeling of nameless dread chases you into a restless sleep that transforms into yet another nightmare.

* * *

**—3 WEEKS LATER.**

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m leaving without you.”

Not hearing a reply, you roll your eyes. Typical John.

Before today, John has never been late. But clearly, there’s the first time for everything since you’re the one forced to wait on him for once.

Winston has proposed dinner in the lounge area and you’re already running ten minutes late.

John who is always painfully punctual came back from one of his mysterious meetings late. Something has been going on these last few weeks and it makes you antsy to know what it is.

John is a private person and you’ve always respected that—have always accepted the fact that there’s certain things about him you will likely never know. But this was also before he started acting so oddly around you.

Whenever he thought you weren’t looking at him or openly paying attention, you would catch glimpses of this profound emotion on his face. You couldn’t help but wonder what it is about being in your presence that makes him look so sad now. It chills you whenever you think about it. He’s never been one for expressive emotion before.

“_John is not one for emotional finesse. He’s not a man to feel easily or lightly._”

Marcus told you that once in a straightforward, blunt manner you’ve come to associate with him now, and you have taken his words as a fact ever since. Back then, of course, you read the deeper warning in his words, too.

_John is not a man to love._

The last time you saw Marcus, his warning had been a lot more direct. “_Kill it. Whatever it is you feel for him. It will never work._”

By the time you two had that conversation, it was already far too late, but you couldn’t tell him that. Your heart is your secret and no one else has any right to it.

A sound of phone buzzing fills your ears and your head turns slowly.

John’s phone is just barely visible as it sticks out of his suit pocket. He’s taken it off in a haste upon returning, apologetic and open to your teasing complaints.

Your fingers curl into a loose fist.

The answers, as far as you know, are all inside that phone.

It’s wrong to even consider a breach of confidence like this. But you _have_ to know.

Have to confirm to yourself that you’re simply being paranoid and there isn’t some deeper meaning for John’s sudden distance.

He’s been a near-permanent fixture in your life since Tokyo—he would never leave you for longer than a day without at least checking in—but you have never felt further away from him.

This closeness should make you _happy_.

But right now this closeness is making you ache with longing instead. It’s like he’s right there, right in front of you, but you can’t touch him without a fear that he’s going to flinch away.

_Maybe he hates you, maybe he thinks you’re a monster after all—_

_No. John wouldn’t. He’s one of the few who truly understands._

You keep repeating that to yourself as your gaze drills into his phone but an echo of those words feels unconvincing even to you.

You stand up on autopilot.

You walk across the room on autopilot, too.

Your fingers wrap around the phone and that’s when you hesitate.

There will be no need to snoop, you tell yourself, you will simply look who messaged him. See if it’s someone you know. Try to figure out if they’re the one whose been sending John messages ever since Tokyo.

Your finger presses a random button and the screen lights up.

The roar of your heartbeat drowns out all other sounds as the message flashes on the screen.

_Thank you for the dinner tonight. I look forward to seeing you again soon—Helen._

_Oh?_

** _Oh._ **

“Sorry it took—”

John’s words die the moment he notices you. His phone is still in your hand but the screen has gone dark again and you stare at the small object between your fingers impassively. The roaring in your ears is so loud you think that a bomb could go off right next to you, and you won’t hear a thing.

The silence between you is deafening.

John knows because you know. Because he can no doubt read the blatant, bewildered shock on your face. The devastation. The _hurt_.

“_When?_”

Just like back in Tarasov’s office, you don’t recognise your own voice. You barely sound human and that hurts even more because it echoes that underground cave on outskirts of Tokyo _too much_.

But because John is John, he answers your bluntness with equal bluntness of his own, “Two weeks after your birthday. She’s a friend.”

You slam the phone in your hand back on the table with enough force to make your hand sting. The sound is like a gunshot tearing through the room, and you exhale slowly.

It still sounds strangled.

Your head turns towards him gradually. Every inch of it hurts. “Do _not_ bullshit me,” you bite out with such ferocious anger soaking your words that your vocal cords actually hurt. “You do not chat with random women. You don’t take them out for _dinner_. She’s not _just_ a friend. Do you really think you can hide her from this world? From _Tarasov_?”

His expression darkens like a sky before a terrible storm. “Tarasov will never touch her.”

_God. God. Why does it hurt so **much**?_

“After everything, I—” your voice breaks, and you inhale a shuddering breath. “After everything we went through—why are you even _here_?”

His expression transforms into that all too familiar, sad thing that you hate so much. You have never wanted to punch him more than at that moment.

“Because you needed me.”

“_I don’t need you_. I don’t need anyone.”

It’s more hysterical than assertive but everything spins in your head like a volatile cocktail of emotion, and you’re not sure if you’re about to burst into tears or tear this room to pieces.

“Yeah, you do,” John says so gently, so kindly, that tears sting your eyes despite your best effort to control yourself. “I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.”

You splutter in outrage. Just like that, the hurt starts to boil into something _else_. “_Planned_ for it? Do you think _I_ panned it? Do you think I _wanted_ this?”

The nameless thing between you is like a third person in the room; that’s the amount of presence it has. You both know perfectly well what you’re referring to. You’ve made clear what you wanted from the start. It’s him that said that you couldn’t be together and now—and _now_—

“I know you didn’t. I—”

“No, you don’t know a goddamn thing. Not a _damn_ thing, John.”

John doesn’t argue. He doesn’t look like he even wants to. He just stands there, looking at you with that pitiful stare.

So it _is_ pity after all. Every minute he spent with you since Tokyo was likely spent wishing he was with this Helen instead. You’re just an obligation to him. A burden.

“She’s not one of us, is she?” you whisper and can’t help but laugh; an empty, cold sound. “Does she even know who you are? Does she have _any_ idea how many people you’ve killed? _Does_ she? You’ll never find peace with her.”

John sighs, looking down before he steps closer towards you but you shrink back, taking a step away from him. You almost wish he was angry in return but he is—as always—unfailingly patient with you. Understanding. _Sorry_.

“She does know,” he admits softly, like he knows exactly how much of a blow those words will land against your heart. And they do—_God they do_. “But you’re right. There will be no peace for us. That’s why—(Name), I’m leaving this world behind.”

Your vacant expression creases, uncomprehending, and at first you wonder if you’ve heard him wrong.

“What_?_”

“I’m going to ask Tarasov for permission to leave,” John explains like it’s so simple. “Cleanly. I’m going to retire and never return. Start a new life.”

It’s then that the nagging, ugly thought you tried to convince yourself _couldn’t_ be true becomes unavoidable.

“You _love_ her.”

You whisper it; as soft and as delicate as your own love for him.

John’s face falls and he reaches for you but you find that you can’t quite move. You feel shackled to the spot you’re standing in.

_It **hurts**._

“No,” John’s voice is stern but you don’t believe him. For the first time in your life, _you don’t believe him_. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

“I’m _nothing_ to you,” you continue in a trembling murmur. “I’m an idiot. _I’m a goddamn idiot_. You n-never felt—”

John’s fingers wrap around your elbow, and he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his body, can see the shadow of devastation shrouding his features that he doesn’t hide from you. Like _that’s_ somehow supposed to make everything better.

“You’re wrong,” he argues, but you’re already shaking your head, and everything inside you cracks further with every word leaving his mouth. “You told me you didn’t want a life outside of this and I thought that meant me, too. Tarasov would have never allowed it, either. But it’s different with Helen—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” you snarl, ripping your hand away. “You don’t know anything. You’re just like the rest of them. Go and be with your precious, darling _Helen_. I hope you’re both _very_ happy. Except you never will be. Not _ever_. You will never get out, and even if you d-do this life will still come back and haunt you. You think you’ve _earned_ it? Peace? Happiness? After all the blood _you’ve_ shed? _You don’t deserve it_! You don’t deserve _any_ of it.”

It’s acid. Vicious and destructive venom that seeps from your tongue so easily, you’re left gasping for breath after you’re done. It feels like you can’t get oxygen into your lungs fast enough to throw more hateful words at him.

You don’t need him. You’ve always been alone and it was stupid to ever expect him to feel the same. And now—now he’s gone ahead and fallen in love with another woman. In _love_. So in love that he wants to leave everything behind and start a life with her. Even if he won’t admit it, you know him enough to understand the gravity of such a decision.

_It hurts so much._

It’s an awful kind of devastation to feel. After everything you’ve gone through _just_ to get back to him. When Kishi was torturing you for hours, John was likely enjoying dinner with his new beloved. The thought makes you feel sick to your stomach. You try to imagine her. Is she beautiful? Kind? Funny? Smart?

_What does she have that I don’t?_

“(Name).”

“Leave.”

This exchange feels hilariously delicate in comparison to what just transpired a few minutes ago. The air—previously so charged with a violent mix of emotions—now feels empty of anything other than unspoken kind of sadness; dense and suffocating.

John’s head lowers. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and in that time you almost hope that he will say something that will give you hope. That he’s changed his mind. That he realised how he wants to stay here. With you.

He doesn’t.

John turns. And he begins to move towards the door.

_Don’t let him go_, your heart begs, gushing with despair. 

You stumble forward a step. “If you walk out of that door,” you state harshly, your voice cracking. “I never want to see you again.”

John stops. His head turns slowly, and he glances at you from over his shoulder. Your eyes meet across the room. You don’t understand the look in his eyes.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

The door clicks shut behind him.

* * *

In the white cracks of the ceiling, you view your whole life.

You see the failures (so many), you see the victories (too few), and wonder how one person can feel everything and nothing all at once.

Your vision blurs and you close your eyes. They ache; a dull, persistent kind of throb, and you turn your head to the side in hopes of alleviating the sensation.

Your phone keeps ringing, and ringing, and—

Eyes still closed, you pull it out of your jacket and press it to your ear.

Hours after John left, and you’re still in the same spot he left you in. Except, the moment that door closed, you felt the last shred of self-control and strength crumble away into nothing. Your knees caved, tears coming in earnest, and you fell away to nothing.

“What?”

“Are you quite done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Fuck you, Marcus,” you croak out, feeling angry that you didn’t check who was calling before answering. “What do you want?”

An inpatient sigh sounds through the line. “I want you to pull yourself together and listen to me carefully.”

Pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes, you exhale impatiently, “While I’m certain this would be a riveting conversation, I’m not really in the mood for one.”

“Shut up and _listen_,” Markus snaps and you feel a twinge of pain through your temple at his tone. “John went to Tarasov. To ask for his freedom.”

You’re silent as you digest his words. _Already_. He’s gone to Tarasov _already_. John must have gone straight to his office from the Continental.

“You knew about her,” you conclude shrewdly, and Marcus is silent which really says everything you need to know. “Why should I give a damn? He cut me loose. He showed _exactly_ how much he cares about me.”

“John cares—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snarl, low and furious, and feel the mangled edges of your heart sharpen your trembling voice into something harsh. Cruel. “Don’t you _dare_ to tell me he gives a shit about how I feel because he doesn’t.”

“Can you stop being a whiny child for one second, and think of something other than yourself,” Marcus cuts in coolly, his own voice losing any guise of warmth. “Tarasov gave John a task he will not survive.”

And then Marcus explains. Tarasov’s task. The mad, hilarious impossibility of it.

You can’t help but laugh—can’t help but marvel at the victorious surge of satisfaction you feel. “I told him he will _fail_. It can’t be done.”

“No, it can’t. Not unless someone helps him.”

Your laughter dies. “No one will go up against the Russian.”

Marcus hums and even that manages to sound annoyed. “We both know that’s not quite true,” he insists knowingly. “Camorra might. The Italians _might_.”

You scoff. “The old man will never, and Gianna is too smart for something like that. And—”

Marcus is silent once again and you drag a hand down your face.

You feel raw as an open nerve.

The realisation is gradual and you curse yourself for it. “That fucking hypocrite.”

“Last I heard you’re quite chummy with Santino,” Marcus remarks, and doesn’t bother hiding the judgement in his voice. “Make sure that when John asks for help, he gets it.”

You sit up so quickly, the sudden rush of blood to your head bathes your vision white. “No,” you snap coldly. “Is that clear? _No_. I don’t owe him anything.”

“Listen to yourself,” Marcus speaks stiffly, and sounds both irritated and disgusted all at once. “After everything he’s done for you? After Tokyo? You can really sit there and say you don’t owe him? You owe him _your life_. And we both know that I’m right. So stop crying and whining about how bitterly unfair this all is. I told you what will happen if you allow yourself to feel for him, but did you listen? _Hm_? Did you?” 

“I love him, Marcus,” is your tiny, wet whisper. It’s the first time you’ve ever spoken those words out loud and they taste so bitter. “I would have followed him anywhere if only—I _love_ him. But he loves her instead.”

Just when you think that maybe Marcus hung up on you because you couldn’t put up with you anymore, he answers, “I know,” he utters quietly, and in that moment, he’s the kindest he’s ever been. “I know you do. Which is why I’m asking you this now: will you be able to forgive yourself if he fails, and you’ll have to live on with the knowledge you could have done something to save him? You know the Russian. You know what will happen if John fails.”

“He can’t kill him,” you breathe, but feel unsure of your own words.

“Perhaps not,” Marcus agrees but he, too, sounds worn. “But you and I both know that it’s not the worst thing he can do. And you also know John. You know what will be unleashed then.”

That’s not quite right, either.

You _did _know him. Once.

Now though...

Now, you think that you hate him for making you love him _more_. Now, you truly and fully feel the realisation that John is _gone_ sink into your bones. If he succeeds, you will never see him again. He will be gone and you will be alone once again.

Not just alone.

Trapped. Again. This time without anyone to fall back onto.

“(Name)?” Marcus wonders after you fail to respond.

A tear rolls down your cheek, and you wipe it away with an angry scowl. “I will speak with Santino,” you tell him, emptying your voice of any emotion. Of heartache. Of John. “But after today, you don’t _ever_ mention his name to me again.”

You don’t wait for his reply before you hang up.

* * *

You pause in front of the table, waiting for the guards to check you but a chuckle greets your hesitation instead.

“Please, _cara mia_, we’re friends, no?” Santino greets with a slight smirk, nodding his head to the seat opposite to him. “Please, sit.” 

“Santino.”

You sit down in front of him, meeting his curious stare. The restaurant he’s picked is as fancy as you would have expected from him, and it takes substantial effort to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

Seconds go by in mutual quiet.

Santino observes you through narrowed eyes, his expression growing grimmer with every second that ticks by. “I know about Tokyo—”

“_Don’t_.”

His scrutiny doesn’t let up. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he asks, his displeasure clear. Then, like a storm passing his features soften, almost disappointed. “I’m not a charitable man, you know that, but I would have helped you. Taken care of you.”

A small noise escapes you. Under different circumstances, it might have been a chuckle but now it lacks any kind of joy or amusement. “Is that what you think I need? _To be taken care of?_”

His expression strains. “Why do you twist my words?”

“Because I’m not here to discuss this.”

“Then at least tell me who did this to you,” he demands, his tone icy, and his head tilts. “Give me their names and it will be _done_.”

You look away, frustration boiling in your chest. The very last thing you need or want right now is a trip down the memory lane.

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell him. “They’re all dead now.”

Santino exhales in frustration, leaning back in his seat, and folds his arms elegantly on the table. “Pity.”

You almost laugh at that. _Almost_.

“I think you already know why I’m here,” you say, and watch him watch you as his eyebrows arch. “So don’t give me that look.”

“Contrary to what you believe, cara mia,” he responds with a roughish little smile. “I am not a psychic. It would be truly beneficial if I was, of course.”

You roll your eyes. “Santino,” you address him directly, not in the mood for his teasing. “I’m here to talk about—”

“The infamous John Wick, yes, I figured you were,” he cuts you off, his words clipped. His piercing eyes flicker away for a moment, and he grabs an expensive-looking bottle sitting on the table between you. “Champagne?”

“No thanks,” you mutter quickly, “So you know why I’m here then?”

Santino pours himself a glass, turning his head from side to side as he hums. “Well, I believe I can wager an educated guess,” he remarks thoughtfully as he looks up at you. “But I’m afraid that you are too late.”

“Too late?”

He takes a small sip and sighs, his eyes closing. Just as you start to feel your frayed nerves begin to rip even further, he finally speaks, “John has already come to me, asking for help with his _Impossible Task_. I refused him.”

His words leave such potent silent between you that you can hear your own irregular breathing.

“Why?”

Santino takes another sip and smiles that slippery, sly smile of his. “Why what? Why did I refuse? Why _won’t_ I? Everything has a price, cara mia. You know this. Besides, John and I have never seen eye to eye when it comes to…_certain things._”

His clever eyes drill into you, and you rack your suddenly empty mind for something else to say. You never accounted for a scenario where you would have to go into this on a back leg. 

“He would have offered you something in return.”

Santino nods in agreement. “He did. But it just so happens that our visions did not align. Not to mention he still owes me from the last time.”

“The last time?” you repeat, uncomprehending. “Since when does _he_ owe _you_?”

He blinks as if caught off guard by your words, and a gleam of realisation reflects back at you. “Interesting.”

“What’s _interesting_?” you mutter, your words wrapped with frustration. “What the hell is it that you want, Santino? There’s always a catch with you.”

The sharply dressed man in front of you sighs again, and rests his chin on his folded palms as he gazes at you, assessing. “I do believe that the real question here, cara mia, is why are _you_ here? Did you come to bargain with me? Are you going to _beg_ in his stead?”

Your jaw clicks and your eyes narrow. For a long, tense moment you both simply stare at each other. “Everything has a price,” you quote, at last, your voice distant. “What’s _yours_?”

His lips flatten in dismay and he lifts his chin, fingers unlacing as he gestures to the side. One of his many guards comes closer and you instinctively tense, your hand wrapping around your poisoned blade. Santino takes note of your taut body right away, signalling for the man to stop and approach slower. He doesn’t look happy about your reaction. The guard casts a wary look your way and places whatever he was carrying into his boss’s awaiting hand.

Santino rolls the object between his fingers deliberately, considering, before placing it on the table in front of you. Not quite halfway, but close enough for you to touch it if you want.

A Marker.

Your throat goes dry.

“You—Winston is not here to witness it,” you whisper unsteadily, feeling trapped once again. The spacious restaurant suddenly feels like a cage, and you feel your heartbeat spike.

“Semantics,” he rebukes easily, lazily. “We both know no one will doubt the legitimacy of this.”

Your eyes finally peel away from the smooth metal and drag up towards him. He’s watching you curiously, expectant. Your heart is in your throat as you do the same. No matter what alternatives you try to think up, they all seem to lead to the same destination.

Bound to yet another contract. Chained to whims of another power-hungry man.

“What do you want?”

You sound angry. Good.

You’re _furious_.

“A favour.”

“What _kind_ of favour?”

Santino regards you with something close to gentleness, and it makes you even more enraged. “I am not Viggo Tarasov. I will never ask you to do something that will go against your moral fibre.”

Your responding scoff is as disbelieving as it is mocking. “Of course,” you agree sarcastically, and ignore the way Santino’s guards bristle at your clear show of disrespect. “Because I’m supposed to just believe that you’re _not_ all the same. Power-hungry and selfish.”

“Oh, I’m most certainly _am_, cara mia,” he intones coolly even though his lips twist into a smile. “But if you want this, then you’ll have to take that chance, won’t you?”

Your expression falls and you press your mouth into a tight line, peering down at the object between you.

Is John truly worth it? After everything he’s done?

Here you are, seriously considering selling yourself and for _what_? 

A man who loves another woman? Who wants to leave everything that you’ve had together behind and move on? John is effectively abandoning you—_has_ abandoned you. But, at the end of the day, it’s not like he owes you anything. And maybe you don’t owe him anymore either, not after this. You promised Marcus that you will talk with Santino, and you have, but you never agreed to this.

Haven’t you done enough? Sacrificed _enough_? 

“_Will you be able to forgive yourself if he fails, and you’ll have to live on with the knowledge you could have done something to save him?_”

No. The awful truth is that you won’t be able to live with yourself.

John may have torn your heart to pieces by walking out of that door, but that didn’t make your feelings for him magically disappear in a matter of hours.

_Let him go._

_But I can’t._

_You have to. He doesn’t want you._

Maybe this is exactly what you need. If you do this, John and his departure will always be tied to this Marker. It will be a constant, terrible reminder of your own lack of freedom. Perhaps, with time, the bitter anger and disappointment that comes with it will help you forget how much you love him.

Your fingers touch the cool metal gingerly.

But before you can take it, a larger, elegant hand lands on top of yours, squeezing.

“_Really_?” Santino practically hisses, his eyes narrowed into slits as he leans closer to you. “That’s all it takes to get you to sign yourself onto a Marker? And for _what_, cara mia? A man who does not love you?”

You jerk your hand back but Santino’s fingers wrap around your wrist, holding your hand next to the Marker.

“I confess myself disappointed,” he intones tightly after a brief pause, calmer now, but his eyes still rage. “He _left_ you. For another woman. An outsider to our world, no less. _You_. The Vipress. And you would still give yourself away, would still tie yourself to me with a _blood oath_ for him. Why? Tell me, do you truly love him _that much?_”

You glare at him for a heated moment.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He jerks back like you’ve struck him, his grip on your wrist loosening. Wasting no time, you drag your arm back, still glaring at him. 

It shouldn’t surprise you to see a glimpse of pure envy contorting Santino’s face, but it does. His intentions in regards to you have always been clear, and he’s always been forthcoming about them. For all his tricks and sly games, he’s always been surprisingly clear cut with you.

The only problem is that you’ve never taken him seriously until this moment.

Men like Santino D’Antonio crave excitement and bore easily.

But perhaps you’ve been too quick to judge him. 

He leans back, his palms dropping down to his lap and he regards you critically. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you—if the fresh scars you wear are visible to him. The way he looks at you makes you think that perhaps he can see them after all. That perhaps that’s why he looks so calmly furious right now. 

The silence between you hangs, hangs, hangs—

“Very well,” he mutters, his smile a sharp, unpleasant thing. “I will help your precious Johnathan.”

A relieved sigh escapes you and you reach for the Marker. Santino grabs it before you can and lifts it to his face, shaking the object a little in your direction with a stilted smile before he pockets it.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper as you watch him rise from his seat, smoothing wrinkles in his suit. “You said everything has a price.”

“Indeed it does,” he insists as one of his guards hands him his overcoat. He shrugs it on calmly, an elegant motion that only adds to his effortless charm. His eyes find yours and he looks at you for a long moment. This time, you find his expression impossible to read. “But my mother who was a great lover of art always told me that life is like poetry,” he explains, a thoughtful frown on his face. “It rhymes.”

He steps towards you but you find that you can’t move a muscle. “John was here because he wants the freedom to start a new life, you are here because of John, and as for me…well, I’m simply here. So no charge, not this time, cara mia. But only because I believe that everything eventually comes around full circle.”

He reaches down and gently takes your hand in his. His lips press against your knuckles, the warmth of his breath prickling your skin and making you shiver. His eyes don’t drop away from you the entire time, and you both know that he lingers for far longer than would be deemed appropriate for two friends.

“Besides, something tells me that you and I will be seeing each other again very soon,” he breathes, and you almost jump when he presses another tender peck to your skin with a glimmer of a crooked grin. “Remember, I’m not doing this for him but for _you_.”

He pulls back, letting go of your hand reluctantly. “Speak to you soon, cara mia.”

Then he turns around and walks away, leaving you alone in the expensive restaurant.

* * *

The text comes two days later in the early hours of the morning.

Marcus’s name flares like a sunbeam across your phone screen and you linger on the _Unlock_ button. Regardless of what this message contains life as you knew it is over. You don’t want to lose it yet, don’t want to let go. Not yet. Either John is dead or…

Or he truly chose that stranger and his new life over you.

_‘He did it.’_

You exhale slowly—in pained relief, in anguish; raw and entangled in each other—and lift your eyes to the ceiling.

The phone in your hand smashes to pieces when it connects to the wall opposite to you.

* * *

**—1 YEAR LATER.**

“Miss Vipress.”

Charon’s greeting is full of subtle surprise, and the slight smile that twitches his lips to one side is a welcomed sight.

“Charon.”

The man inclines his head. “May I say that it is most pleasing to have you back with us again,” he tells you as you place golden coins on the counter. “The usual, I presume? For how long shall I book you in for?”

Clicking your tongue, you glance around, soaking in the feeling of being back here again. “Thanks. And let’s say two weeks?”

The rest of the exchange is familiar to you and a faint, genuine smile lingers cross the seams of your mouth as you look around, spotting more than one familiar face in the lobby.

“There is one more matter that I’ve been instructed to bring to your attention upon your arrival,” Charon begins, and the slight hesitation in his tone catches your attention. “The manager has requested to see you.”

Your eyebrows arch. “Winston? He’s in at this hour?”

“The manager is always in,” he answers, a glimmer of amusement colouring his words. “Would you like me to announce you?”

You nod absentmindedly. “Uh, yeah, sure. The lounge?”

“Indeed, Miss Vipress,” he says, passing your key across the counter. “Please do enjoy your stay.”

Shooting a quick smile his way, you head towards the bar, knowing that Charon will take care of your travelling bag.

Considering that it’s early hours of the morning, the bar is more active than one would expect. Most of the people here are used to the nightlife though, and come from many differing time zones. You’re all nocturnal creatures, living in the shadows because that’s where you feel most alive.

You greet a few familiar individuals with a slight nod of your head and ignore their invitations to join them for drinks.

Instead, you cut a straight path across the lounge to a corner that has long since been dubbed “Winston’s corner”. The man himself sits silent and focused as he examines a small pile of golden coins placed before him.

“New shipment,” he calls by the way of greeting. “Bad timing but impeccable quality as always.”

“Winston,” you greet in return, and the man finally lowers his glasses, looking up at you. “Little nighttime indulgence?”

Your gaze pointedly fixates on what you can only guess is a glass of brandy.

“Can’t an old man enjoy life a little?” he questions with mock surprise and you smirk. Winston gestures to the empty seat. “Do sit down. We have much to discuss. It has been a year after all. How are your new friends?”

Noting his tone, your eyes narrow. “I don’t have friends,” you rebuke swiftly, coolly, “Not anymore. Learned my lesson last time. Now I assume there’s an actual reason why you wanted to see me?”

Winston nods his head, lips twisting thoughtfully. “But of course,” he says like it should be obvious. “But before all that, I want us to discuss some things. For example, your involvement with Santino D’Antonio. Honestly, out of all the people you could have gone to—”

Your expression warps with disbelief and you scoff under your breath. “Is that judgement I hear in your voice?”

“Goodness no,” Winston shoots back, but his bright stare is cutting. “I’m merely questioning your sanity. I don’t think I need to remind you what kind of man he is. His interest in you, for all intents and purposes, is bound to come with an expiration date. And then what?”

“_Then_,” you force out painfully slow in order to control your tone. “It won’t matter anymore. Because they will all be dead. Honestly, Winston, what did you expect me to do? Lay down and let them kill me? How can you sit there and judge me for doing everything I can just to _survive_.”

He exhales wearily, and his slumping shoulders make him look older just for a moment.

“Johnathan was a top-level associate of ours, a legend in his own right,” he begins and _that_ name being spoken out loud cuts through you like a knife. “I always knew that his departure would cause a rather large power vacuum in our world. As his closest associate, I also knew that some people may see fit to try and take out their old grudges on you. Johnathan had as many enemies as he did friends. But he did his best to protect you. The depth of his care for you—”

“I’m sorry, _his care_?” you repeat, soft and disbelieving, as you consider the man in front of you. “His _care_ came in the form of abandonment. He as good as threw me to the wolves. He left without so much as a second glance, so please tell me again, where exactly _was_ his care?”

“I assure you, he went through great lengths to ensure your protection,” Winston replies calmly, and there’s that hint of chilly authority in his voice that usually makes people shut up and listen. It’s a sore spot for a topic, and you know that’s the only reason why he’s tolerating your cracking disposition and sharp tongue. “What I’m hearing from you right now is bitterness and jealousy. You’re better than that. We both know that what you truly resent is not the fact that Johnathan left, but that he did so without _you._ But what did you expect?”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me be blunt,” he begins and lifts his glass, sloshing the amber liquid inside from side-to-side. “Viggo was onto you. He knew that there was more going on between you two than a simple partnership. He would have had you killed if he got so much as a shred of proof. Johnathan knew that too. He did you a _kindness_ by pushing you away. He was more fond of you than you can ever truly understand. _Too fond_. I warned him against it. But he couldn’t let you go. The distance you imposed after his rejection—if you can even call it that—came at a good time. Meeting that woman was an accident. In her, Johnathan saw a chance for a different life. Saw a way for _both_ of you to be safe and happy. You told him that you couldn’t see a life for yourself outside of this, did you not? He left so he could forget you and keep you safe. And I imagine that Santino D’Antonio did not, in fact, help Johnathan with his task out of the goodness of his heart. Especially not when Johnathan already owed him for Tokyo. So I think you’ll forgive me when I say that I don’t quite buy into your supposed hatred for him.”

You stare at Winston in dumbstruck silence. Forcing air into your lungs, you clear your throat, trying to process everything you’ve just heard.

“What—” your voice creaks and you swallow again, determined. “What do you _mean_ John owed Santino for Tokyo?”

“Of course I’m referring to—you don’t _know_,” he concludes astutely, an eerily familiar understanding washing over the contours of his weathered face. The same understanding that you saw on Santino’s face a year ago on that dreadful night. “Oh, how typical of Johnathan. He left you to believe whatever was the easiest. What do you think happened, my dear? How did Johnathan get there, do you reckon?”

“He—but Tarasov—”

Winston tuts, and places his glass back on the table.

He looks almost sorry when he speaks next. “Johnathan noticed your absence quickly, and you’re right to assume he went to Tarasov first,” he tells you quietly, and the words rattle through your mind like marbles. “But Tarasov refused him. He did not care. So Johnathan went to someone he knew would.”

“Santino.” 

Winston dips his head slightly. “I do not know the terms of what exactly they agreed but I do know that Santino was less than pleased with the outcome. He didn’t tell you this but…John called in a great number of favours and burned an even greater number of bridges to get to you. He did not rest until he got you back. Except he didn’t, did he? A part of you died in that damp, dirty underground pit. You haven’t been the same since Tokyo.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No.”

Your eyes move away, and you try to subtly swallow the sudden lump in your throat. Despite your best effort to appear unaffected, it still feels like you have lead sitting in your stomach. You want to stand up and walk away from him, but you also respect the man in front of you too much for that.

“Why did you help him?”

You let out a weak chuckle. “Come now, Winston, we both know why. Why even bother asking?”

“Because I need to know that I can give you this,” he replies, taking out a white envelope and placing it on the table between you. “Without the worry that you will do something…_unwise_.”

Your gaze zeros in on the white material and for some reason it frightens you more than you would care to admit.

“What is it?” you ask, already regretting the question.

“I don’t know,” Winston says, all nonchalance, and you wonder if it’s because he knows what this is doing to you. “But Johnathan took a great risk to call in this favour. It came to me three months ago. I would have had it sent to whichever Continental you were staying at but Johnathan was _very_ clear that it’s for your eyes only. I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Burn it,” you tell him stiffly. “I don’t want it.”

Winston shakes his head, a flash of displeasure crossing his features. “You will regret it if you don’t take it. Make this the closure you need it to be. You never said goodbye properly. Maybe this can be the full stop in this tale that you so desperately need.”

Your lips part and you hurriedly lick them, feeling even more frustrated than before. There’s truth to Winston’s words but it feels too much like picking at a scab that has just healed over.

Tapping your fingers against the table, you finally reach over and snatch the envelope, rising to your feet.

“What do you plan to do about the people still coming after you?” he wonders idly, curiosity lacing his words.

The letter burns in your hand, an enormous weight that makes you feel like you’re being dragged to the ground. 

“What I do best,” you inform him without turning around. “Kill.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that Winston’s laughter followed you out.

* * *

You consider the envelope for a long time.

You consider ripping it to pieces and throwing it away.

But a part of you that sounds suspiciously like grumpy Winston stays your hand.

So instead you eat, shower, stare at the envelope, pace your room, and stare some more.

You’ve moved on.

Or have been trying to, at least.

Life without John is a different experience. It’s a colder, even crueller place than it was before. So, to a degree, you understand what Winston meant when he said that John has been shielding you from the worst of it before.

But he’s _gone_ now. And you’re relearning everything from scratch.

Santino’s offer, now more than ever, burns through your mind.

You did not give him your answer before leaving Italy, and a part of you wants to call him right now—let him be the voice of reason that will tell you to throw the letter away.

You’re done with John. You _are_.

Falling heavily onto the loveseat, you reach for the envelope.

It feels heavy but not too full. Something hard is inside but it’s still bendable when you test its limits. Curious, you bring it up to your nose, inhaling, and run your fingers through the length of it to see if anything suspicious sticks out.

Nothing.

No odd odours, no unusual edges or bumps.

You stare at it.

There is nothing but your name scribbled in a familiar, cramped font on the front. Your fingertips trace over it and you feel a pang in your chest. Your hand hovers over the envelope and you watch your viper ring gleam against the white paper. 

You still wear it. Isn’t that a sign enough that you _haven’t_ let go?

Even if you’ve been trying—_so hard_—it still manages to feel fresh. It’s unhealthy and you deserve better than to torture yourself over this. But this last year has already been torture for a multitude of reasons, so is this really any different?

Gritting your teeth, you rip the envelope open. You can’t allow it to have power over you. You can’t allow _John_ to have that power, either.

A card slips out first, clearly the heavier object, and you check the inside to find a letter, too. You rub your fingers together, hesitating, before you take it out and unfold it.

_Dear (Name),_

_I know I have no right to ask this of you, and I will understand if I never hear from you again. But it would mean a lot to me if you could be there._

_\- _ ** _John_ **

Short and direct enough for any doubts about its authenticity to crumble away from your mind.

Your eyes slide towards the card that lays facedown on the coffee table.

Swallowing, you pick up the expensive paper, turning it around.

_You are joyfully invited to the wedding of—_

The invitation slips from your hand, falling clumsily through the air before it lands on the table once again.

You stagger to your feet, swaying, dazed, and wander towards the window. Your forehead presses against the freezing glass, and a breathless sound rattles free from deep within. It’s a low, devastated sort of noise and like a wounded animal you fold into yourself, breathing deeply.

A wedding.

John is getting _married_.

Is this some cruel joke?

Is he doing this on purpose? Why else would he invite you to the one occasion you would never want to attend? Especially after how you last parted ways.

But John is not one for cruel tricks, not one for mindless harm for the sake of amusement.

Last time you saw him, you told him that you never want to see him again, but it’s clearly not a sentiment he shares. The problem is that you’re not sure if you can handle it. For all your struggles, for all the ferocity to keep living, this could be the one thing you will not be able to overcome. That night, a year ago, was already bad enough.

Your head moves back, and you look over your shoulder towards the invitation still laying innocently on the table. It’s the type of startling white that sticks out in the dim room like a beacon.

Feet unsteady, you walk back towards it, reaching for it once again. Your hands are shaking and you clench your fists till your rapid heartbeat evens out. Then, gritting your teeth, you force yourself to read through the entire thing.

Finally, your eyes snag on the time and date printed, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

You shouldn’t have come.

You don’t know why you did.

No—that’s not quite true, is it? You _do_ know why you came.

You came because, in order to be free of him, you have to see this through. You have to allow John to drive that one last knife into your chest and twist it for good measure. Then, perhaps, you can finally let go once and for all. Strip him out of your heart till there’s no trace left of him. A full stop in this story just like Winston said.

Still, this decision kept you up for the entire night, restless and hurting, and it wasn’t until two hours before the ceremony that you finally decided to come.

The venue is stunning. A warmly lit, open space and you can’t help but envy the beautiful composition of colours and flowers.

The attendant—a stunning blonde with bright green eyes and an extravagant gown—greets you with a beaming smile, taking your invitation.

“Bride or groom?”

Your mind is so chaotic that at first, you don’t really register her words; they’re a distant murmur only. Wincing, you give her an awkward, pained grimace of a smile.

“Sorry, jetlag is a killer.”

The woman looks sympathetic and nods her head in understanding. You likely look terrible and just sleep-deprived enough for her to buy into your words. 

“And, it’s…” you trail off, suddenly unable to speak. The groom. It’s easy to say. If you can’t even speak what’s the point of coming here? Just to embarrass yourself further? “The groom. Groom’s side, I mean.”

“Wonderful! Please sit on the right, then,” the attendant says with a happy chipper in her voice. You can’t hear any forced cheer in it either which surprises you. “You’re running a bit late. The ceremony has already begun but I think you’ll still make it in time for the exchanging of vows.”

_Great_.

This is torturous.

It’s been a year but it feels like yesterday.

You should have taken Santino up on his offhand, deliberate offer to go to Paris together. You could have prolonged your trip for just another week and would have missed the wedding entirely. Then, you would have had an easy explanation, an out.

On instinct, your eyes sweep over the crowd. Despite it being a wedding, you still have blades and needless on you; most of them are soaked in some of your latest inventions. Each as nasty and as lethal as the last. You’ve learned from your mistakes. _Never again_.

It surprises you but you see no familiar faces in the crowd. A part of you expected John to invite Winston or at least Marcus—his oldest, most trusted friend.

It’s startling to realise that you’re wrong. That on one of the most important days of his life, you’re the only one here.

John has truly torn out his old life root and stem and this is proof of that.

Your eyes finally find him standing hand in hand with his bride and your stomach coils.

He looks—

He looks so _happy_.

The happiest you’ve ever seen him.

He stands tall and proud, his dark gaze warm and full of love as he speaks his vows.

He looks in love. At peace. Happy.

It’s like a punch to the stomach to see him like this. To know that he’s found those things you told him so cruelly he didn’t deserve to have.

And Helen…

She’s _beautiful_. Practically glowing with happiness as she beams up at John.

So many times—there’s been so many times when you had imagined that she wasn’t anything special. That maybe she’s ugly or stupid. That John will never be happy once the initial attraction fades. So many times when you unfairly demeaned her in your head just to make yourself feel better. But you’re wrong.

Helen is stunning. The type of woman you can’t help but admire.

It hurts so much that you feel—for the first time since that night John left you—tears begin to blur your vision.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

John smiles, a small but loving curl of his mouth, and leans down to kiss his new wife.

A shuddering breath escapes you, swallowed by the crowd that explodes into wild applause and cheers. You watch as the new-wed couple exchange words, intimate and soft, and John places a protective arm around Helen’s waist.

Your gaze drops.

The crowd is still a roar.

“What a beautiful couple, don’t you think?”

Head turning, you glance at an old man you’ve never seen before and find him clapping as loudly as the rest of the crowd.

“Yes,” is your empty whisper. “Yes, they are.”

_It’s okay. It’s over now._

Your eyes close and you turn away from the happiness and cheer, walking blindly. As long as you get away from this, it will be fine.

Soft music fills the air when you stumble outside, swallowing large gasp of air and pressing your hand against your chest. Your head falls back and you look towards the sky. The sun has just set, the furthest corner of the sky already allowing first stars to peak against the darkened expanse. Then your chin drops, your vacant stare lingering on all the beautiful fairy lights wrapped around trees and bushes.

Putting one leg in front of another, you stagger forward. It feels like being back underground. It feels like that time Kishi pressed his heavy boot against your lower back, keeping you still after you tried to crawl away. It feels like you can’t move, walk, jog, breathe, _exist_.

_Yes, I can._

You take another step and another, feeling...it’s devastating, it is. But with every heavy, pained step also comes a sense of calm. Of finally—

“You came.”

You freeze.

Blinking, you try to compose your expression before you turn around.

John comes closer, hesitant, as his dark eyes take you in. As always it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, and it’s so obvious now that he’s always been so guarded around you. So unlike moments ago when he showed just how open he can be with the person he loves.

“Well,” you halt, nibbling on the inside of your cheek to gather yourself. “I couldn’t miss your wedding. Some friend I would be if I did.” 

“I didn’t think you would come,” he says, stopping right in front of you. “But I’m glad that you did. I wanted to talk to you.”

You laugh weakly, and it sounds so forced you regret it immediately. “Yeah, well, impeccable timing as always, John. Congratulations, by the way.”

His expression is unreadable, but you feel a whisper of surprise when he extends his hand towards you.

Then, with that gesture, comes the understanding.

You were right. None of this has been about hurting you. Everything; from the invitation to this, is about giving you both closure.

John didn’t want the last interaction you’ve had to be a hateful one. And, until this very moment, you didn’t know you didn’t want that, either.

You place your hand in his and he pulls you closer. Then, arms careful and hesitant around each other, you begin to sway to the distant music coming from the reception.

“You should be back there,” you tell him quietly. “Celebrating.”

He meets your stare, calm and patient as always. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Silence follows his words and you move together for a while without a sound. Your eyes flutter closed, and you rest your cheek lightly against his chest. His scent, his warmth; they sink into you gradually and you add them to your memory.

“I just wanted—”

“Winston told me.”

John looks down at you. “I asked him not to.”

Your smile feels sad, weary. “The old man likes to gossip, I guess,” you mutter in a poor play on humour, and tighten your fingers around his. “John I—I just wanted to say that—I didn’t mean what I said that night—”

“You don’t have to apologise, (Name),” he tells you, and his expression seems strained, so unlike the previous joy you saw earlier. “I hurt you.”

Shaking your head, you glance away, and try to smile again. “I was angry…and hurt. But it still did not give me the right to say that to you. You—_you_ of all the people deserve this more than anyone. I’m happy for you. _I am_.”

“(Name) I—”

“_Please_,” you cut him off before he can continue. “Please make this easy for me. I’m trying to do the right thing here but it’s so damn hard. It’s _so hard_ and I—just thank you. Thank you for everything. You saved me and I will never be able to thank you enough for it. But I had to at least try before this goodbye.”

“Then don’t make it a goodbye,” he whispers suddenly and your eyes find his, full of surprise. “We can keep in touch. You’re my friend.”

You chuckle; a wet, weak sound. “We both know that’s too dangerous,” you answer him, and hate how sad you sound. “You’re _out_, John. You’re free and you’re happy. That’s all I could ever—”

Your voice cracks and you lower your head, swallowing. John’s cheek rests against the top of your head and he squeezes your fingers when he feels them tremble between his own. You stand still for a while. Simply breathing together and you love him for the fact that he allows time for tears escaping your eyes to dry.

“I’m _sorry_.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, choked. “You tried to keep us both safe and found happiness on the way. My anger was selfish. And sometimes…sometimes people can be good together but it still doesn’t work out.”

You pull back slowly, carefully turning your fingers to free your hand from his grip. Staring at the ground beneath your feet, you allow yourself a silent moment of grieving.

For what you had.

For what you still could have had.

John stands still, sensing that you need this moment and you feel a small smile twist your mouth. You lift your head and place your hand—his ring gleaming—on his chest. He looks so handsome in a tux.

“So,” you begin with a smile. “This is me letting you go, John.”

You lean closer and press a gentle kiss against his cheek. Your expression crumbles, and you tilt your face till it’s next to his ear, so he won’t see your pain. 

“Please be happy.”

Then you pull back, your hands dropping away, letting go.

“(Name), wait—”

“John? There you are. What are you doing out here?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Helen. She looks even more beautiful this close up. She walks down the steps, lifting her stunning wedding gown and recognition flashes through her eyes when she spots you.

“Oh, you must be (Name),” she greets with a kind smile. “I’m Helen. John has told me a lot about you. I’m glad you’ve been able to come. Wouldn’t you join us inside?”

Your eyes slide towards John who looks as torn as you feel. You give her a smile too. Whatever resentment you once felt towards this woman has up and vanished into thin air.

She comes to stand beside John and you’re momentarily speechless. They look good together. Like they _belong_.

“It’s lovely to meet you. And I’m sorry, but I can’t,” you say, keeping your smile intact. “I have, ah, a job…that I need to get to. But it was a beautiful ceremony and—take care of him for me, would you? He’s so _awful_ at it. And…”

Your voice wavers but you’re still smiling even though neither Helen nor John are.

“I just wish you both…_all the happiness in the world_. Truly.”

You nod your head, inhaling deeply, and laugh.

Your eyes meet John’s for one last time and you grin at him. “Goodbye, John.”

Not waiting for a reply, you turn around and start walking away.

In and out. In and out.

The cool evening air kisses your burning, tear-streaked cheeks but you keep walking with your head held high.

Alone. Just like it’s been for so long.

A butterfly trapped in a mason jar.

Never to be free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if you survived _that_ then you are my hero. The ball is really going to get rolling now so strap yourselves in. 
> 
> Any feedback, as always, is eternally appreciated. And thank you to those who have already showed support in whatever capacity! <33


	4. remember all the words i said;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were friends once.”

**—4 YEARS LATER.**

“Well, well, if it isn’t my father’s loyal little bitch.”

Your eyes slide towards Iosef, drilling into him with a stony expression. Cocky and as irritating as always. Some things never change.

“Don’t you have kindergarten, little boy?” you wonder out loud.

His nostrils flare, eyes bulging at your dismissive tone and he jumps up from his seat. His friend holds him back, shooting you a brief, panicked look.

“What did you say to me, bitch?” he spits out in harsh Russian as you calmly shrug off your coat, dropping it on an empty chair as you sit down.

You don’t answer him, checking your phone instead, and the spoiled brat continues spitting words he no doubt thinks make him sound tough. It grows old quickly, and your eyes lift back to him again, considering. His friend looks increasingly uncomfortable under your scrutiny.

“Shut up, boy.”

Tarasov’s voice cuts through the room with a coldness that snaps his son’s mouth shut right away. The Russian enters his office calmly, removing his coat as his guards scatter around the room. Your eyes meet and your eyebrows rise in a silent question. Tarasov actually looks apologetic.

“What is it that you’re doing here?”

Iosef bristles at his father’s tone, clearly haven’t expected the older man’s displeasure to be directed his way, and pulls himself out of his friend’s loose hold.

“We need to talk, father,” he informs shakily before shooting a vicious glare your way. “But this bitch needs some manners to be beaten into her first. You didn’t hear the disrespect she showed me. We should—”

“_You_ will shut your mouth and get out of my office,” Tarasov cuts his son’s tantrum off firmly as he pours himself a glass of vodka. “We have business we must discuss.”

“But—”

“I will _not_ repeat myself again, son.”

Iosef stands gaping and chastised, his cheeks flushed a blotchy red. Even the guards look uncomfortable though hardly surprised at the exchange and you suppress a grin. Avi just looks like he’s watching the same episode of soap opera go down for the hundredth time.

The spoiled brat shoots you a dangerous look and you wink at him, crossing your legs and turning to face his father. Iosef spits to the side before storming out of the office and slamming the door loudly in his friend’s face. The spare hurries to open the door after him, scurrying after Iosef and you can’t help but chuckle lightly at the theatrics.

“My apologies about that,” Tarasov mutters in clear irritation, nodding his head towards the door before he gestures at the vodka bottle. “Care for a drink?”

You shrug before nodding, a sly smile in place. “Didn’t take after you, did he?”

Tarasov manages to look both annoyed and put out all at once, and you grin wider when he places a glass of crystal clear vodka in front of you.

“No, I’m afraid he rather took after his mother.”

“My condolences, then.”

Tarasov actually laughs at that and salutes you before drowning the glass in one gulp. Avi offers him the bottle again, and the man pours himself another without hesitation.

“Yes, rather unpleasant woman, is she not?” he muses, and continues without waiting for a reply. “But never mind that. Business always comes first. The ambassadors?”

Your fingers brush against the expensive glass and the liquid inside sloshes to the side. Lifting your eyes, you meet Tarasov’s expectant stare.

“Dead, of course,” you inform him, feeling surprised he would think anything else would have brought you back home. “Did you expect anything else?”

Tarasov leans back in his expensive leather seat, regarding you with a hard, searching look. “It took you longer than planned.”

You shrug again, feeling peeved but knowing better than to let Tarasov smell a weak spot. “They were very paranoid. I had to go deep undercover to gain their trust. But it’s only two months. Nothing that affects your expansion plans. I was very thorough. No traces will be found.”

Tarasov nods his head, looking pleased and takes another sip. “So,” he begins deliberately, and you feel his scrutiny shift into something less casual and more ruthless—the very thing you know him for. “We move closer towards the end of our partnership.”

_Partnership_? Is that what he thinks this thing between you is? Avi, too, blinks as if taken aback by the choice of words but doesn’t comment.

“Two more jobs, yes,” you intone flatly, staring him down.

Tarasov’s lips twist thoughtfully. “Perhaps more than that.”

Your hand drops away from the glass, and your eyes narrow. “_No_,” you say, your voice icy. “Two jobs. No ifs or buts about it.”

Tarasov’s chin rises and his lips curve. In that action, the last five years are stripped back and you’re staring at Tarasov who came to New York with a vision of control, of power. While your relationship has more than mellowed out over the years, there are still rare moments like these. Glimpses of the powerhouse of a man he is. Brilliant. But cautious too. That’s one thing you always admired about him—his relentless but clever manoeuvring. It would be a lie to say you haven’t learned much from him because you honestly _have_. 

He hasn’t laid a hand on you since that first time either. But only because you have never given a chance to do so again.

A part of you likes to imagine that you’ve gained his respect over the years, but you have no illusions of where exactly Tarasov thinks you belong.

Beneath him. Because he always has to be in control.

“Santino D’Antonio makes you brave,” he remarks softly, his accusation clear and you scoff under your breath. Tarasov’s slight smile transforms into a frown and it sharpens his features into someone to be feared. Respected. “Do you think his favour makes you immune? Your contract is still mine. Do not forget that.”

“You don’t have to worry,” you shoot back easily, not missing a beat. “My loyalty is yours. _For now._”

“You do realise how easy it would be for me to open a contract for your head if it wasn’t, don’t you?”

Your smile sharpens and you laugh. Low and cold.

“By all means,” you tell him, cocking your head to one side as you fight back a grin. Once it would have terrified you to hear him say something like that. But now you feel amused at best. “The last two months have been _so_ boring. I would love to get some free entertainment. But rest assured that if you send _anyone_ after me, I will send you their cold, dead corpses back.”

Tarasov’s lips curl in a faint sneer and he takes another swing of his drink. He drowns this glass too. His austere blue eyes drill into you but you don’t flinch away, holding his stare.

“You’re not John.”

Your smile fades at his soft, mocking accusation. He speaks it in Russian for added insult and for a moment you only peer at him without a word.

There’s a rustle of clothes when a few guards reach for their weapons as if sensing the drop in the mood. Avi shoots you a warning look but you don’t bother turning his way.

You’re not smiling anymore.

Tarasov watches you with an expression that challenges you to do something. To shed blood and forfeit your life.

Years ago, you might have. Anger always burned brighter in you than fear. Something tells you that years ago, you would have leapt right at him, sliced him open even if you were shot moments later. The satisfaction of knowing that you’re taking him out with you would have been enough.

Instead, you sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before you open them again, looking right at him. You stand to your feet and the guards shift, pulling their weapons out. As if that would make a difference. If you wanted to kill Tarasov he would be dead already. But you can’t. Not yet. Rules, rules, rules. Winston would be proud.

You grab your still full glass and lift it to your eyes, inspecting the clear liquid inside.

“You’re right,” you state calmly, shooting him a brief look. “I’m not John. I’ve failed plenty of times in the past. But let me remind you of one very interesting tidbit of information…”

Lifting the glass to your lips, you drown the vodka inside, hissing slightly at the vivid burn you feel spreading down your throat. You roll the empty glass in your hand before turning it upside down and slamming it on the oak table separating you. One of the guards points his pistol at you.

You ignore him, leaning closer towards Tarasov with a grin.

“Unlike John, _I’m still here_.”

You incline back slowly, allowing your ghost of a smile to linger and turn to grab your coat.

Tarasov watches you from under heavily furrowed brows, looking less than pleased. You wave at Avi, too, knowing that neither of them is going to attempt something today. Killing you now would be too much of a loss for Tarasov at such a crucial time. He’s already lost John—a loss you know haunts him to this day even though it’s been five years already. John might have almost singlehandedly created the foundation upon which Tarasov established his kingdom, but the battle for power never ends. Not in New York. He can’t afford to lose another triumph card. Not right now, at least.

“I’ll be seeing you around, _boss_.”

* * *

“I always found it to be a rather ugly piece of work.”

Your lips curl into a faint smile when you hear crisp footsteps come to a stop beside you. The painting in front of you glows in the light and you hum, contemplating.

“I don’t know,” you say back, still watching the painting. “It always struck me as a rather lonely piece. An old woman waiting for her beloved to come back home from war, even though she knows he’s dead. Tragic, isn’t it?”

“Depends on your definition of tragedy, I suppose.”

You chuckle and the second voice joins you soon after. It’s an easy moment and you feel the tension in your shoulders melt somewhat. Your head turns left only to be greeted by familiar green eyes and a crooked smirk.

“Santino.”

“_Ciao_, bella,” he greets, his teeth gleaming in a wide grin. He steps closer and kisses your cheek, lingering for a beat before pulling away. His heady, expensive cologne fills your nose and you watch him when he pulls back. He grips your hand in his own, finally stepping back as he takes you in. “As always, you are a vision.”

You snort but your smile lingers. “Very smooth.”

Santino’s smile widens, knowing and smug. He looks as sharp as always, his tailored three-piece fitting him to perfection. Always one for fine taste.

“I didn’t expect you back in New York for another month,” you begin when he finally lets go of your hand. “Is everything alright?”

He slips his hands into his pockets, peering at you intently. You’ve grown used to the intensity of his regard over the years but sometimes—on a rare occasion—it still manages to catch you off guard.

“I’m touched by your concern, cara mia,” he answers after a pause as if snapping out of deep thought. “But something _has, _unfortunately_,_ come up. My, ah, father has passed.”

Your eyes widen, lips parting in shock, and you swallow as you continue standing there in awkward silence. “I—” you fumble before sighing. “I would say ‘sorry for your loss’ but…”

“But good riddance, am I right?” Santino guesses with a small, understanding nod. “He was not a particularly loved man or boss. Especially not in his final years.”

“He was still your father. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tilting. “Don’t be. It was a matter of time only.”

You hesitate, an obvious question burning on the tip of your tongue. “And the High Table seat?”

His eyes sharpen and he glances behind him, jerking his head to one side. The guards inside the large gallery room step outside at once, and your eyes flicker to them, startled.

Slowly, you turn your focus back towards Santino, and don’t bother masking your surprise.

“It is not for their ears,” he says by the way of explanation and you control your confused frown. “This discussion I wish to have with you alone, cara mia. Walk with me?”

He offers his arm to you and you take it after a brief pause, regarding him with open curiosity. Linking arms, you start slowly strolling through the large space. Despite the many questions you have, you wait for him to start speaking first. When you glance at him, he appears to be in deep thought and perfectly happy to simply walk with you in silence for the moment.

“We do not know yet,” he begins after another few minutes of stillness. “He left a Will, of course. It will be read in two weeks time. His successor will be announced then.”

“But?”

Because you can feel the unspoken word lacing every word Santino speaks and he pauses momentarily, looking towards you.

“But,” he mutters tightly. “If you had to make a guess as to who will be named the next heir?”

“Santino—”

“Indulge me, bella.” 

Exhaling slowly, you frown, thinking your words through. You’ve gotten an insider look into Camorra’s affairs during these last few years through him—a fact that Santino originally received a lot of criticism for, especially from his father. With time and your rising status, the bitter mutters subsided but you know that there’s still those in the Italian ranks that would rather never see you and him in the same room again. Still, your unlikely friendship has brought them a fair amount of success and business, too.

Partnerships such as yours—John Wick’s old partner and presumed heir to the Camorra seat—always draw attention. Over the years, your “collaborations” have drawn plenty of attention as well. Many considered you either Santino’s whore or Tarasov’s spy. Neither is true but people still like making stories up about your involvement with both men.

You don’t blame them for their suspicion, either. It’s a well-known fact that you work for Tarasov first and foremost, and people rarely let that knowledge slide. The same way they always question the nature of your relationship with Santino. As if it could be defined so easily.

“I think your father saw potential in you,” you start, looking away from his expectant stare. “But perhaps not in the area you see yourself in. And—”

“_And_?”

“_And_ I think that in these last few years the old man was grooming Gianna for the seat,” you explain hurriedly, though it pains you to do so. “I—sorry. I could be wrong—”

“No, bella,” he disagrees, his voice light. His eyes are dark though, almost like a brimming storm. “I think you are _exactly_ right. On this, we agree. _Bravo_.”

“Santino—”

“Join me for dinner tonight?” he asks abruptly, stepping so close you feel the brush of his suit. “It’s been three months. I have missed your company.”

You gape for a moment at the sudden change of topic. “I don’t think this is the best time…”

His expression tightens, clearly picking up on your weary tone. “Did something happen?”

Shaking your head, you step to the side, unhooking your arms and let your eyes focus on the beautiful statues around you. “No. Tarasov simply saw it fit to remind me that I’m still his little puppet. I guess you could say I’m a little cranky,” you joke, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

Except, Santino is right _there_. Only a step away. His eyes are two chips of ice—any previous amusement or ease wiped clean. You’ve seen this side of him plenty of times. Mostly during jobs. When he had to be cruel. When fear had to be introduced in order to get results.

Some like to call him the Smiling Shark and you could understand why. Between the two of you fear has always been easy to come by.

“Did he _hurt_ you?”

“No,” you tell him with a slight shake of your head, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Tarasov is smart. He knows how to hold power.”

“He’s a fool,” he cuts in, voice low. _Angry_, you realise, and it makes you look up at him again. “Stuck in his old ways because he thinks they will save him and his empire.”

“You don’t believe in the old ways,” you point out, half-accusation and half-observation. Santino’s mind has always worked differently. He’s never lacked vision nor the ruthlessness to carry it through, even if it means stepping on peoples’ toes. It put a large divide between him and those who still follow the old code of conduct. So while he always gets results, he doesn’t have many friends to show for it. “Tarasov _does_. It’s a way of life for him and many others.”

“Well I believe in taking what I want, _when_ I want it, cara mia,” Santino says and in his eyes, you can see the ambition, the haughtiness that drives him forward because he _believes_ that his vision of the future is right. Because he thinks that rules don’t apply to him because he disagrees with them. “Not standing around and feeling sorry about a few cracked eggs along the way. Their old ways are _dead_. _We_ are the future of our world.”

You stare at each other for a charged moment and that’s the way it always is between you now. He always says things that force your hand, tear at the wall between you, and it’s up to you to always put it back up.

Footsteps fill the gallery, echoing loudly long before anyone comes into the line of sight. Pulling away from him and choosing to ignore his fervent stare, you turn in the direction of the newcomer.

It’s Ares.

You shouldn’t be surprised. Not many would have the nerve to step into a room after Santino dismissed them all for privacy.

The sharply dressed woman halts at a respectable distance, wiggling her eyebrows at you with a wink.

_Good to see you_, you sign.

_Likewise pretty viper_, she signs back as her teeth gleam.

“Is it important?” Santino demands, turning around to face her as well.

His second in command only nods, her smile fading quickly and the heavy furrow of her brows tells a troubling tale. Ares is cool under pressure. No problem is too big for her. So it must be something major if she’s this sullen.

“I should head off anyway,” you speak up before Santino can, glancing his way. “I have a few errands to run. I’m working on something new. I think you’ll like it.”

He hums, checks his gleaming Rolex, and lets his eyes snag onto yours again. “My driver will pick you up at 7pm sharp. I assume the Continental? How come you still continue to use that place even after I told you that my penthouse is open to you at any time?”

Why indeed.

“Their dry cleaning is cheap,” you deflect and rush ahead when you notice his lips part as if to argue. “_And_ I haven’t agreed to dinner.”

His mouth stretches into a lazy grin at your words. He reaches out and the back of his index finger brushes against the surface of the delicate chain around your neck. Something flickers across his expression; a look you don’t get to see long enough to decipher before his hand drops away.

“_Mhm_. Would you like me to _beg_ for the pleasure of your company, then?” he wonders slyly as he reaches to take your hand in his. His own hands are warm and it shocks you every time he touches you for some reason. Perhaps because it’s hard to grasp the idea of someone so cold-blooded being so warm. “On hands and knees, perhaps? Is that it?”

“That’ll be a day,” you state dryly, unable to hold back your own reluctant grin at his theatrics. “_Fine_. I’ll join you. You already know what I like.”

Santino grins like a shark he so often gets compared to, his fingers tightening around yours. “Indeed I do, cara mia. Indeed I do.”

* * *

“—so here I was six years of age, no, perhaps seven,” Santino recalls, just as engrossed in the story as you are. “Witnessing what I believed to be a miracle. I tell you, bella, my mother’s lasagna was the finest you could taste anywhere in Naples. No, in the whole of Italy. It felt like being held in her arms. On a sunny day, we would sit on the rooftop terrace overlooking the entire Gulf and marvel at the simplicity of life. The sweetness of it.”

“Yes, I can imagine little Santino with his wild curly hair running around the kitchen covered in sauce,” you tease and Santino laughs; a rich, genuine sound as he brings the wine glass to his lips. “No task too hard. Mischievous as always.”

“I would look good in an apron, no?” he poses with a teasing grin, gesturing to himself and you don’t hold back your laughter. “I would have you know that I was her favourite little helper.”

He pauses, his smile fading a little.

“Those are my fondest memories of my childhood,” he tells you quietly, his voice dropping and you almost want to take the last few moments back. If only to go back to the carefree, open expression he wore before. “Then came her death and the warm dream ended. Gianna and I grew apart. Our father began treating us not as his children but as his heirs. ‘One day you will rule an empire’, he used to tell me. Tsk, tsk. What does an empire mean to a seven-year-old boy, hm? Empty words only.”

You keep silent as you listen. What comfort could you offer him that wouldn’t feel empty? He doesn’t need you to comfort him. He needs someone to listen. So you do.

Santino stares at the empty space behind you, lost in thought, before blinking and giving you a slow smile. “My mother would have loved you though. She was a vicious woman but with people she loved…she would have done _anything_ for them. I think she’s the only thing my father ever _truly_ loved. They both balanced and challenged each other daily. But she _did_ make him better.”

“So unlike your father,” you say after a moment, realising that he’s waiting for some form of response from you. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“No, perhaps not, cara mia,” he agrees but sounds thoughtful. “But you had his _respect_. Which is something I struggled to gain even at the very end.”

“He loved you, Santino. In his own way.”

“_You always have to be strong_,” he whispers, his voice pitched lower in imitation of the imposing man you’ve only met a handful of times before. “_Never let them see you weak. Because the only thing others respect and follow is strength. If you let them see you as vulnerable, they will slit your throat and throw your body to the sharks. Do not bring me shame by being weak. _I was_ eight._”

He blinks slowly as if seeing the memory right in front of him.

You run your fingers down the stem of your wine glass before lifting it in front of you. The motion catches Santino’s attention and he glances at you in confusion. 

“A toast,” you state, your own voice hushed. “To parents who perhaps tried but didn’t succeed.”

He makes a small sound at the back of his throat, a smile curving his mouth although it looks strained.

“What a pair we are, eh?” he wonders idly as he taps his own glass against yours.

You lick your lips, the rich taste of red wine lingering on your tongue, and nod your head once. “We are what we are,” you tell him in Italian and watch genuine delight bloom across his features.

“_Ah, bella_, I do love it so when you speak my mother tongue,” he remarks and slants his head in consideration. “It suits you beautifully.”

You give him a disbelieving smile, casting your eyes over the otherwise empty restaurant pointedly.

“A bit excessive, isn’t it?” you question jokingly, deliberately changing the topic. “Buying out the entire restaurant _just_ for dinner?”

Santino watches you through half-lidded eyes and gives you an indulging little smile—as if you’re missing something obvious. “Special occasion. I assure you, I don’t do it just for anyone.”

Before you can say anything else in return, your phone starts ringing.

Casting an apologetic look his way, you pull it out, standing to your feet. Santino nods his head with a faint smile as he salutes you with his glass.

_Take your time,_ the gesture says.

Both of you have an old understanding. Business comes first. 

You don’t venture too far away, your table still visible from where you come to a standstill. Turning the phone in your hand, you press _Answer_, holding it to your ear.

It’s not a number you recognise at first glance so you begin with a flat, “Hello?”

“_(Name)._”

Your blood runs cold.

* * *

The car is silent.

Despite the pleasant evening, your gaze is focused solely on the outside. Santino sits opposite to you and _his_ gaze is focused on you.

After the call ended, you forced yourself to gather whatever remained of your tattered composure. But, of course, he picked up on the fact that something has happened right away even if you refused to divulge any details.

It irritated him greatly, you could tell.

But he still offered to drop you off at the Continental.

Sometimes it still surprises you just how far you stretch his limits and how far he lets you.

Santino’s golden ring gleams in the streetlight that filters through the car window, and you shift in your spot, finally turning to face him.

He’s watching you pensively, his cheek resting against his folded fingers, elbow leaning on the door.

“If you are in some sort of trouble,” he speaks slowly, his voice dripping with that cold promise of bloodshed. “You need only to say so, cara mia.”

“No trouble. Promise.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it and you don’t blame him. You’ve been restless ever since the phonecall, your ears still ringing, and it’s difficult to hide that sort of thing. Especially from someone who knows you well enough to pick up on the little hints.

Since Chicago, he knows the worst parts, and it still bewilders you that _he_ of all the people doesn’t pester you for more.

“Very well,” he mutters flatly, his eyebrows heavily pinched and he finally removes his gaze from you, studying the scene outside. “If you say so.”

The flickering New York lights crawl over his figure and you debate whether you should say something after all. It would be unwise. Not to him, at least—not with the history between you all. There are no guarantees as to how he might take the news.

“I know about it, you know?” you finally speak after a stretch of uncomfortable, tense silence between you. A rarity. “Even if you never told me.”

Santino continues looking outside but you don’t miss the slight roll of his eyes. “You would have to be a bit more specific, bella. Know what, exactly?”

He’s being petulant because he doesn’t like not being in the know—not when it comes to you, at least.

“About you going to Tarasov to buy out my contract and pay off my debt to him.”

That gets his attention.

His hand drops away, his eyes snapping to you in disbelief. It lasts only a second before he composes his expression, arching one eyebrow at you with an air of cool disinterest.

“_Oh_?”

Normally, you might have rolled your eyes at his behaviour, at his poor attempt to deflect. But instead, you simply peer at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Santino shakes his head with a click of his tongue. “What would have been the point?” he questions you with a slight sneer. “The deal failed. I do not particularly enjoy discussing failures, cara mia, you know this.”

“The _point_,” you tell him, your voice soft. “Is that you could have told me anyway. To manipulate me. To use the fact that you tried to help me as a means to make me feel as if I owed you. There’s a thousand and two things you could have done but you didn’t say a thing. For _years_. Why?”

“Who called you?”

His voice is clipped and you know it’s because he’s unused to being forced in a corner verbally. It’s not a comfortable position for a man of his status to be in. The car slows in the traffic and the silence between you is more prominently felt then. Tension is not a foreign thing between you, but it is rarely of this nature.

After a few minutes, the car begins moving again, crawling along the streets and you sigh, deciding to let the conversation drop. Another stalemate.

“Do you trust me so little, _hm_? Is that it?”

Inhaling sharply, you focus back on him and find that a frown has transformed his features into a foreign expression.

“It’s not about trust,” you argue, your voice weak and ignore the mocking scoff he releases. “It _isn’t_. Can you—just let me handle this on my own.”

Santino looks like he’s about to say something else but the car halts, and the familiar dreary walls of the Continental are clearly visible through the window.

You reach for the handle without hesitation, not waiting for anyone to open the door for you as you step out. It’s better to leave the suffocating tension between you back in the car than to deal with it _now_ when you’re unsure if you can keep yourself together.

The air is still warm but the evening chill has set in, and you wrap your arms around yourself, pulling your long coat tighter around your shoulders.

A hand halts your journey before you can take a step further, and you turn to find Santino’s fingers lightly wrapped around your elbow. His expression is conflicted, unhappy.

“I do not wish for us to fight,” he says seriously, and his words lack their previous sharpness.

“Neither do I,” you whisper back because it’s true. You reach forward and place your hand on top of his. “Please trust me.”

His mouth curves into that devilish, wicked thing you know has charmed plenty of men and women alike. “Oh, that is a dangerous thing to ask of me, amore,” he notes mildly, his gaze heated. His eyes drop to your mouth and you feel a shiver crawl up your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “A dangerous thing indeed. But perhaps I _can_…”

He leans closer, his warm breath brushing against your parted lips but you turn your head to the side at the last moment, his mouth ghosting over your cheek instead. Your eyes squeeze shut and your expression crumbles. He lingers for a moment, inhaling, before chuckling faintly against your ear. The sound lacks warmth.

“Five years,” he notes quietly; a soft, bitter undertone running through his words. “Five _years_, and he still stands between us.”

“Santino, please,” you breathe against his ear, pained, but he only presses another light peck to your cheek before pulling back.

Your faces are still only centimetres apart and he smiles, his eyes roving over your features with an expression you have only caught glimpses of in the past. It’s still impossible to miss the virulent disappointment lining his face though.

“The woman with blood on her hands,” he murmurs gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he chuckles under his breath. Teeth gleaming and his dimples visible. “Like the sea on a stormy night, unyielding and unafraid. I am a patient man. I can _wait_.”

You wish it were that simple. You wish you could see yourself the way he does. He sees something special, but you only see an off tilter person who is haunted by everything she has lost. How could he even say that you’re unafraid when he knows how you hardly get more than a few hours of sleep every night? How you wake up with a scream tearing out of your throat because you’re back in that underground facility, back with Kishi and his unwelcome touch, back with the torture he put you through? When he knows _exactly_ how badly it still haunts you?

How can he even care when the last five years have been nothing but an attempt to forget, to bury, everything that you’ve ever felt for John? Like your every step hasn’t been haunted by the shadow, the memory of him, wherever you go.

Back then everyone knew you only as John’s associate.

You’ve been forced to hear his name on an almost daily basis for _years_. And you’ve grown to resent the comparisons, the never-ending questions, the danger he put you in by simply leaving with every passing day.

And now…now he’s _back_ in your life, you don’t know what to do. Don’t know if you should do anything at all—not after the _hell_ his departure put you through.

It’s not something Santino could ever understand.

“After everything we’ve been through,” you utter, at last, exhaling softly. “It’s not a ‘no’.”

He hums, one side of his mouth curved upwards but it lacks the usual bite you’re used to seeing. “Ah, but it is hardly a ‘yes’ either, is it?”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, but his eyes snag onto something behind you, in the direction of the staircase leading up to the Continental. It’s like a switch being flipped. His faint smile fades; a cool, haughty indifference smoothing his features out in its place.

Your head turns slightly and you spot Charon on top of the stairs, watching your exchange with a blank expression. He nods his head in a polite greeting when your eyes meet but he doesn’t acknowledge either of you otherwise.

“I am a call away, bella,” Santino reminds you in smooth, clipped Italian and you know the switch is purposeful as your attention returns to him. “Do keep that in mind.”

He cradles your hand in both of his and you shift in surprise. His lips press against your knuckles and he winks before pulling away, shooting a pointed—almost sarcastic—look behind you as his tailored suit ripples with his movements. He fixes the invisible creases absentmindedly and you suppress a snarky comment. 

One of his burly guards opens the car door for him, but he pauses just before getting inside. His bright green eyes lift to you and he regards you for a silent moment. “Sleep well, carissima.”

The door shuts and the entourage of three cars disappears down the street.

Charon waits till you climb the stairs before speaking. “Nice weather we’re having this evening, Miss Vipress.”

“I’m sure Winston will be thrilled to know that,” you shoot back pointedly, giving him a sideways look. “Speaking of the old man. Lounge?”

Charon inclines his head in confirmation, not commenting on your previous loaded statement.

You pull the door open, stepping inside without waiting for the man to follow you.

Santino’s quiet words plague you as you walk, echoing through your mind like a bell, and you grit your teeth.

_I am a patient man. I can wait._

When he said that you never did point out the simple truth you both know.

Santino is _not_ a patient man. Has never been one.

Yet he still continues to wait for something you’re not sure you can give him. 

* * *

“Bastard.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Twelve across,” you mumble, pointing at the paper before collapsing heavily onto the expensive leather chair with a groan.

“Oh! Much obliged,” Winston responds with a nod of his head, looking down to fill in the blank line of his crossword puzzle. “You look positively miserable. I presume there’s a reason for that?”

The older man peers up at you from above his glasses, tapping his pen against the paper as he waits for you to speak.

You fold your arms over your chest and exhale, eyes sweeping around to see if anyone is taking a special interest in your conversation. Seeing you with Winston is hardly a new or exciting thing but you’re both high profile enough for people to try their luck. You hesitate for another moment before turning your weary gaze his way.

“An old _associate_ of ours called me.”

For a moment he only peers at you in hushed silence. There’s no doubt in your mind that he knows exactly to whom you are referring to.

“Retirement is not stimulating enough, I see,” he comments lightly, and his eyes flicker around too, assessing. No doubt measuring how safe it still is to be having this conversation out in the open. “Did this associate give you a reason for their call?”

You swallow, and your lips tremble.

For a moment, Winston looks genuinely concerned though he masks it quickly with that professional, cool detachment.

“His wife died, Winston,” you whisper, and your voice catches. “Terminal illness. He asked me to attend the funeral.” 

His reaction mirrors your own earlier one to hearing John relay that same information to you. A slackening of his expression, a slight widening of the eyes before the information is processed in the brain, and a response to such tragedy is offered.

“_Heavens_.”

He shakes his head slowly, and his disbelief is genuine, you can tell. Disgruntled sort of sadness washes over his face before it’s wiped clean, and the manager sighs; a worn, weary breath.

“A terrible price to pay for freedom,” he notes, and lifts his glass of brandy, taking a large sip. “Did he say anything else?”

“He wasn’t exactly in a mood for a chat,” you bite back, your nerves frayed and he shoots you a dull look.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, dear.”

Exhaling, you close your eyes, rubbing your forehead where a tedious twinge now throbs. “What the hell should I do?”

Winston leans back, lowering his glass onto the crisp white tablecloth, and stares at you for a beat. “The real question is what do you _want_ to do?”

Your arms lower. “He asked me to come to the funeral. He—he didn’t sound like himself.”

“His wife has just died, I would assume not,” he states, his voice monotonous, and it’s your turn to shoot a look his way. But he only spreads his arms out with a shrug. “Honestly, what is that you expect me to say (Name)? Do you want me to tell you what to do? Discourage you? Or pat you on the head and send you on your merry way? These are choices, and they are yours alone to make. You _know_ the risks.”

“Things—” you voice cracks, and your fingers tighten painfully. In this light, the faint scars around your wrists peak from beneath your jacket sleeves and you stare at them. Even after all these years, the reminders of your time in Tokyo are still visible. When you needed him most, John was there for you. But is this really the same? “It’s been _five years_, Winston. It’s not that simple anymore. Things are very different from what they once were.”

“Indeed they are,” he agrees easily, and leans closer suddenly, a glimmer of a cool smile lingering on his face. “You weathered the storm his departure caused. You’ve grown fangs. The world has moved on, as have you. He is no longer one of us. Once upon a time, you might have owed him a great debt but that has _long_ since been repaid. Whatever you do now depends solely on what _you_ want to do, and not on what is expected of you. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe anyone a damn thing.”

His words wash over you and you allow the exhaustion, the sadness, to show. “If it were you…what would _you_ do in my place?”

The older man leans back at that, and you hold his gaze, unblinking. Winston presses his lips together and seems to consider your words for what they are; a call for guidance.

“Regardless of everything that has come to pass,” he begins, and exhales as if considering if he should continue. “You were friends once. The type of friendship I have never seen in our world during the long years I’ve been a part of it. Nor have I witnessed anything like it since. So, from the sound of it, your friend rang you because he needs you. Because he is alone and hurting. Johnathan would have known the risks. But he still took that chance because he trusts you.”

* * *

It’s a miserable, wet day.

Befitting for a funeral, you suppose. Despite how cliched it is.

The heavy rainfall beats harshly against your black umbrella and you watch the small, solemn ceremony from some distance. The mood is vastly different from the last time you saw John. There was happiness and joy thick in the air back then. Now, grief hangs like a suffocating blanket around everyone present.

You’ve considered approaching John before the burial began. You could just make out the outline of him from where you stand, but something has been keeping you back.

A part of you still doesn’t want to see him. A part of you doesn’t know how, exactly, you will react when you do.

Four years.

Four years since you’ve walked away from him and his blushing wife, choosing to close that chapter of your life.

You’re a different person now—no longer caught in the chokehold of your love for him. In hindsight, this should be _easy_. Despite everything that has transpired between you, you _did_ part on semi-good terms. Even if those first two years have been near unbearable to live through, you still managed.

_I’m still here._

Lingering bitterness still haunts you though, and you think that perhaps it’s only human of you. Some things cannot be so easily forgotten. John is simply one of them. And with how much you loved him, is it really any surprise? Some betrayals hurt more than others.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” a familiar voice speaks from behind you, steps drawing closer till he comes to a stop beside you, his umbrella bumping against yours. “How’s your spoiled Italian princeling doing?”

“Marcus,” is your aloof greeting, and you don’t bother looking at him. “Always a pleasure.”

“Oh my, did I offend?” he wonders frankly, his voice dripping with sarcasm and your lips press together. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the exact same thing,” you tell him, lifting your umbrella till you can see his face. “But I’m not nearly as nosy as you are.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow, his expression suspicious. “John happens to be one of my oldest friends. And _you_ just so happen to show up on the day of his late wife’s funeral.”

Your grip the umbrella in your hand so tightly the plastic handle creaks.

“I have always respected you, Marcus,” you whisper, your voice frigid. “But if you _ever_ try to imply what I think you just tried to imply again, I will slit your throat and watch you choke on your own blood.”

Your head turns in his direction—a show of just how seriously you mean those words—but Marcus is smiling faintly, amused.

“And here I thought you only liked to watch your targets convulsing in agony from a safe distance,” he muses, his tone humorous. “Word on the street is that you don’t like getting blood on your hands anymore. I suppose that makes me special then, doesn’t it?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Marcus’s smile widens but it’s more biting than friendly though you doubt your own expression is any better. While you have never been the best of friends, you have always liked each other just enough to care about one another. Even if only a little; even if only because you shared a person in common who you both cared about once.

After John left things between you changed.

Marcus never had the power to help you in any substantial way to deal with the aftermath of John’s departure.

Santino _did_.

A choice Marcus has never quite let go of. To him, your decision has seemed like a betrayal.

He’s never said it to your face, but you know that he holds it over you to this day.

This, here, is your first time seeing him in almost a year. 

A part of you wishes it wasn’t under such unpleasant circumstances. But a part of you _also_ wishes that he didn’t hold your survival over your head either. You’ve learned much from him in the past, and you long for your relationship to go back to what it once was. Sometimes you still catch yourself hoping that there’s some way for you to mend the cracks John’s retirement has created between you.

“He called me.”

Marcus digests your words, not rushing ahead as most would. Always the methodical bastard. “He _called_ you,” he repeats slowly, the sharp disbelief clear in his voice but you don’t see the need to explain yourself further.

The funeral party starts dispersing, the service over, and you see few people pat John’s shoulder in a shallow display of compassion. John hardly responds though, standing stiff and silent at the front. As if something like that could ever console him. It makes you wonder if these people know him at all, despite how convincingly he must have played his part in the last five years.

He stands alone for a moment, gazing at the now empty space where the casket previously stood, and you find yourself swallowing thickly.

He turns reluctantly and begins walking back towards the cars without a backwards glance, and you absently wonder if he’s feeling similar pain to what you did. On his wedding night four years ago, you walked away with the full intention of burying John Wick in your mind.

For the last four years, he’s been as good as dead to you. Only his ghost lingering near.

Marcus clears his throat. “Shall we, or do you prefer standing in the rain all day?”

Ignoring his tone, you cut across the graveyard, the older man right behind you. You sincerely doubt that John is, in any way, unaware of your presence. You can domesticate any animal you want but their hunter instincts are still there, just buried deep.

You’re nervous, you realise, the closer you find yourself to him.

And then, there you are, face-to-face and everything and anything you want or could to say flees from your mind.

John is different yet exactly the same.

_His hair is longer_, is your first, bemused observation. Few new lines are marking his face as well; an indication, more than anything, that he is indeed just a man. Not some monster others like whispering about even to this day. As if they know him, as if _anyone_ does.

His dark eyes find yours for a second, and it genuinely shocks you what you see reflected back at you.

Grief and pain.

So blatantly displayed that it unnerves you. John you know—_knew_—rarely allowed so much as a millimetre of weakness to show through. He always found a way to remain untouchable, removed from the fabric of the world others clung to.

John has always been the man who made the impossible possible.

Except now.

Except now that he’s a grieving husband staring back at you with those still too familiar dark eyes.

He looks _empty_.

“Hello, John.”

It’s a slow reaction that earns you a small scoff from Marcus but you can’t bring yourself to care. Maybe he understands, or maybe he doesn’t at all. Still, you’re grateful for his presence here because he takes the lead, exchanging a few quick sentences with his old friend. John, much to your surprise, looks wary to see him and their interaction lacks warmth—not that you expect John to be very emotional given the type of man he is.

A thousand different things come to mind as you stare up at him, but they all tangle together as you find yourself unable to speak at all. There’s a sudden stab of irritation at yourself for even bothering to come—for being foolish enough to even attempt to see him again. The truth is, now that John is here—right in front of you—you don’t know _how_ you feel. You keep waiting for something: anger, happiness, annoyance, _anything_. But it’s a tangled ball that only tangles further when you try to unravel it.

You think about the last five years. Think about all the blood you had to shed because of him, and find yourself frowning.

Marcus shakes hands with John, and you try to recall a single word of their conversation only to come up blank.

Marcus has clearly picked up on the fact that John is not feeling too comfortable with his presence here, and turns to go.

You linger behind. John has invited you for more than a brief encounter, it’s clear on his face as his silent stare fixes on you.

Marcus, having noticed your absence, stops and you hear him turn to look at you over his shoulder. He waits for a beat, but when you don’t move, he only makes a sound at the back of his throat; something that sounds vaguely displeased.

“Don’t forget the consequences.”

The disapproval in his voice is clear but much to your surprise he still walks away, giving you two privacy.

Except, deep down, you’re no longer sure if you have anything left to say to the man before you.

Not anymore. 

* * *

“You look well.”

You keep your gaze focused on the outside.

There’s only the two of you left inside his beautiful home, and it makes you feel trapped. There has never been a version of events inside your mind where you would get to see John again. So it unsettles you to be with him, here, inside his home. All while he stands there in his dark suit that marks the depth of his grieving. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend the last five years haven’t happened at all.

Except, they _have_, and it feels disrespectful to even be here.

Every corner of this house is a shrine to Helen.

To John’s life with her; to his endless joy and peace with her.

Wherever you looked during the reception, trying to mingle with the guests to draw less attention, your eyes always snagged on the dozens of pictures scattered around.

This house feels more like a graveyard than a home now. It’s clear that the absence of Helen is felt in every corner of this once loved space, and by none more so than John himself.

He stood apart from the guests the entire evening—a short, few hour affair that felt more like a necessity everyone wanted to hurry along for John’s sake—and it’s impossible to miss the weight of pain on his shoulders now that everyone is gone.

“You sound surprised,” you respond neutrally, feeling increasingly awkward. “It’s been years, John.”

You hear him step closer behind you.

Your shoulder blades tense on instinct—they always do now. You don’t like having people behind you anymore, not where you can’t see what they’re doing. Santino, surprisingly, is the only one you can tolerate to have behind you without instinctively wanting to aim a weapon at him. And even that took years of trial and error.

“No, not surprised,” he tells you quietly. “I always knew you’d be fine.”

Then, mercifully, a spark of anger ignites in your chest. “Is that _so_?” you question tightly, and you know you sound cold. “If only you _knew_. People were eager to line up and try their hand at getting rid of me,” you mutter and turn to face him with a vitriolic smile. “Didn’t work out too well for them though.”

“I didn’t know about that,” he remarks, confusion clouding his features. “The last time—”

“It doesn’t matter now,” you cut him off because the last thing _he_ needs right now is more guilt or worry. “Why did you call me, John?”

He stares at you for a long minute, silent. Once it would have been a normal exchange between you but now—

Now, it’s clear that neither of you knows how to talk to each other anymore. How to ignore—or not ignore—the giant elephant in the room. It’s becoming painfully obvious with every second here that there’s a wall between you, and you have no idea how to tear it down—or if you even want to.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his words soft and low, though it’s hardly what you want to hear. “I guess I had no one else I could call.”

_You were friends once._

Swallowing, you turn around and walk deeper into the room, creating some distance between you. Regardless of everything, something about John _still_ calls to you. And isn’t that just _disgusting_?

“I’m really sorry about your loss,” you inform him, meaning every word but still refuse to look his way. “But it was a mistake to call me. I came only out of respect for our old friendship. We both know what would happen if anyone in my world found out about me being here. You get out, and it’s _forever_. That’s what you wanted.”

“I just thought—”

“Thought what?” you interrupt, your voice jumping in volume before you force yourself to breathe. “That Tarasov is going to let me come down for afternoon tea?”

John’s expression falls, his lips slightly parted, and now he looks sad on _your_ behalf and it makes you angry just to see it. “_Tarasov_…so you still…”

You hum loudly, mocking, as you nod your head with an icy smile. “Yes, _still_. But don’t worry. I’m getting very close. And once I’m there, _well_.”

His gaze sharpens at that, and in it, you see a glimpse of old John back. “You plan to go after him.”

Not a question.

You don’t respond either because you both already know the answer to that.

“He’s one of the big ones now,” you tell him, and wonder why your words sound like an accusation. “You did your job rather well. _Well done_.”

John takes your anger calmly. Something tells you it has less to do with his stoic nature and more to do with the fact that…

That perhaps he feels like he _deserves_ it.

“We should talk,” he speaks, at last, his tone cautious. “I know you have questions about why I did what I did.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished. “No John. That’s not what I’m here for. I can’t keep doing this anymore. We existed in the past, and that’s exactly where I would like us to stay. I stopped wondering or caring about your motives a long time ago. Like I said earlier, it’s been years. Things are different now. _I’m_ different.”

“People don’t change,” John argues evenly, though it sounds more like a statement. “Only times do.”

There isn’t much you can say to that. Because, for once, you want to return his old kindness. Telling him everything that has happened since his Impossible Task would only devastate him more. He doesn’t deserve that. Not after what he just lost.

However, it still doesn’t stop the silent resentment bubbling inside your gut. Hurting him now would be _easy_ and a part of you _wants_ to. 

You were right though; it’s been a mistake coming here today and seeing him. The uncomfortable roll of your stomach only confirms it.

“I should get going,” you say, though your words lack emotion, lack anything that once rang through your voice whenever you talked with him. “I have a job coming up.”

It’s a lie. He knows it too.

“You could stay for a bit,” he murmurs, unsure. “I have some—”

“I should _go_,” you cut him off, firmer this time. “Remember what I said last time we saw each other.”

You certainly do. You let him go. Allowed him to have his new life, and now it’s his turn to allow you to do the same.

John nods, looking down and a tiny, insignificant part of you longs to stay.

_He_ never did though.

Your heart hardens with that thought.

“Let me walk you to the door, at least,” he suggest instead, and you follow him silently, your fingers tightly clenching onto your jacket. “Thank you for coming. You didn’t have to.”

You halt by the door, and glance up at him, hesitating. “No, I didn’t,” you agree softly, meeting his dark stare. “But I’m glad that I did.”

Your words fade away awkwardly, and you swallow again.

A million unsaid things pass between you and you give him a slight smile.

“Take care of yourself, John.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but a shadow falls over the door, ringing the doorbell.

You break the eye contact between you, and he reaches for the door where a delivery woman stands on the other side, staring at you both expectantly.

Smiling, you nod your head at him and brush past the woman without another word.

For the second time in your life, you walk away from John Wick.

This time, there’s no pain.

There’s just a faint longing for something you _thought_ died a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *new player has entered the chat* ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> We are just getting started, heh~~
> 
> As always, thank you so much everyone for reading and your support. You're all amazing!! Loved it? Hated it?? Let me know?


	5. something that died long ago;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all ready for 15k+ of plot and Santino lol.

“_It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” _the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. _“In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them._”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast. 

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

_Shit, shit, what is he doing?_

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he _doing_?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so _full of secrets_.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with. 

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are _here_. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult _and_ a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “_Your city_?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “_Bravo, bravo._ So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, _no_? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? _Tourists_?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the _why_,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually _wink_ at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be _impressed_. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his _favourite_. Which makes you…a _nobody_, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave _now_.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s _right_. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then _some_.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“_Deal_.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“_Meraviglioso_,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he _ever_ played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant _idiot_.

“Ah, _women_, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because_ angry_ is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“_Inside_,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

_Go easy on him_, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“_What the hell were you thinking?_” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“_Bella_,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for _you_. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I _am_ also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m _flattered_,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“_No_, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People _do_ that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m _not_ smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

* * *

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the _slightest_ criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even _remotely_ genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “_For now_, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they _are_ getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. _Sciocco_.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you _are_. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he _does_ know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

_Tomorrow morning_, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

_I should secure us a location_, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. _Appreciate it._

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious. 

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“_Oh_?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is _dangerous_. For both of you.

That _he_ is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else. 

“You know _why_,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It _always_ means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—_vital_—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will _never_ abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, _amore_,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll _wait_.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we _will_ have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will _not_ let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. _Enjoy your dinner_.”

* * *

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“_Flavio_!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you _doing_? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve _ever_ purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course _not_.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running _late_. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is _always_ displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I _will_ have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you _will_ live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him. 

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, _focus_,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do _not_ talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are _forever_. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“_Fuck you_,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you? With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really _did_ think you got away with it. But nah, we were _always_ going to find you out. And now you’re _both_ exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“_Shit_.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

_Get him out of here_, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. _Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this._

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. _Not without you_, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums _now_.

“You stay here and you _die_,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a _goddamn machine gun_ joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, _and_ the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig. 

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel _nothing_. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all _not_ understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause _no matter what_.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“_Now_.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

_45 seconds? Still too slow._

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather _easy_. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected _yourself_, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be _so easy_ to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man _howls_.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you _shit_.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the _least_ of your worries. Yeah, that’s _right_ that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think _this_ hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well _enough_—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

_Finally_, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. _He is starting to become grumpy._

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole _eight minutes_ is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your _incompetence_,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You _will_ get me more—_I will call you back_.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with _you_, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to _his_ actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

_We are going to collect the prisoners_, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He _will_ punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He _will_ inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You _know_ I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this _isn’t_ about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, _certainly_,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. _I will make them sing_.”

* * *

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together. 

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

_Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi_

Frowning, you immediately text him back. _Is everything okay?_

For Santino to text instead of calling—“_I like hearing your voice much better._”—it would have to be something _truly_ important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. _Yes_, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. _I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi_

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. _I like it when you worry about me, cara mia_. _:)_

Rolling your eyes, you text back. _Don’t get carried away._ _It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse_.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “_Why_?”

“He—_please don’t kill me_—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “_No one_ demands _anything_ of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“_Or_,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you _failed_. Tomorrow noon.” 

_ **. . .** _

“Next time _call_ instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a _hole_ in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does _not_ like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, _your majesty?_”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you _have_,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just _full_, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King _doesn’t_ know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? _Ha_! That _is_ the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-_fucking_-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good _friend_ to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am _so_ _very_ fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But _no_. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, _unfortunately,_ departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon's head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already _knew_ that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting _old_.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him _any_ less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. _After_ your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most _ridiculous_ thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that _Winston_ of all the people is busy making _retirement_ plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I _have_ been paying attention. And it’s all very…_peaceful_, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s _not_ coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “_Peace_. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

_That_ gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and _God_ if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “_Who is it_?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so _hate_ to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I _care_ when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because _you_ mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in _my_ kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, _your majesty_,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

* * *

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time. 

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio _insists_ that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s _absolutely_ necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that _doesn’t_ mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please _do come in_.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means _a lot_ of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is _different_.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows _exactly_ why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips. 

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. _Maybe_ a team. Because you’re certainly a _something_—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost _pained_ and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the Will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh _fuck_.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“_And_,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the _Spare_ of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, _life_,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And _now_—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for _decades_ has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when _exactly_ you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

_Chicago is when you knew_, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted _more_, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m _sorry_.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it. 

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a _better_ idea.”

* * *

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would _ever_ leave either of you _here_ of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy _diner_ of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times _before_ and _after_, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had _everything_ growing up expect that which he needed _most_. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what _he_ wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other.

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did _everything_ in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at _what_ price?

“_Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it._” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of _his_ actions. 

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to _break_ himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is _not_ a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come _after_.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, _Santi_?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute _idiot_ sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s _not_ practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really _do_ consider him a friend. 

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can _promise_.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“_Sure_ you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…_vexing_ sometimes.”

“Have you _met_ you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you _adore_ me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

* * *

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything _but_. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He _must_ release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been _so long_. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else _definitely_ knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on _you_ and was tracking _you_ instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus _should_ be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

_There’s a storm coming_.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife _died_. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he _found_ it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so _easy_ but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to _forget_. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you _too_ well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt _more_, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause. 

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously. 

“Oh my.”

“John.”

_Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh. now that all THAT is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D
> 
> as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support!


	6. there will be blood;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible to hate and miss someone in the same breath?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had an insane week so I'm SO sorry I haven't replied to your reviews yet (thank you so much for the support ;-;) I will try to reply to 5-6 stuff either tomorrow or Monday. Figured I'll give you a new chapter for now though. Enjoy!!!

**OPEN CONTRACT:**

JOHN WICK

2 MILLION USD

**BY:** VIGGO TARASOV

The light emitting from your phone screen is the only one in your room, and you breathe in and out slowly, thinking.

Of course, the team was going to fail. Five years or not, John is still…

He’s _still_ John Wick.

It almost makes you wonder what exactly Tarasov was thinking sending such an insulting number to his front door. But you wouldn’t have known about the dinner reservation John rang in if it hadn’t been for Winston who shared the information with that accepting, knowing air about him.

_There’s a storm coming._

Seems like the Bowery King was right to say such a thing. Because Iosef—that cruel, stupid, petulant _moron_—has now unleashed hell upon his own family and himself. If there is anything of the old John still left inside, you know that he will tear New York to shreds to uproot the young idiot from his hiding spot. There is no hole left in this city where John will not eventually find him.

You swallow, locking your phone, and run your hand harshly over your face.

This—you don’t _need_ this right now. Not when you have yourself to think about, and especially not when there are clearly individuals out there gunning for you and Santino, too.

John belongs in the past, and it makes you wonder if it’s some cruel joke that life keeps pushing him back into your path.

2 million contract though.

It won’t surprise you if it’s money Tarasov took from Santino for your own job. The sum feels _too_ deliberate and Tarasov knows that the news will reach you soon.

Rising from your seat with a jerk, you grab your jacket and walk towards the door. You can’t focus on work right now less you mess up, and this waiting for the axe to drop is starting to drive you insane.

Winston is out, you know that much, but the bar is always open.

Slumping in the elevator, you close your eyes, trying to imagine what all this could mean.

A war, for one. A bloody one.

John has never given up on anything and you recall the empty look in his eyes the last time you saw him. For Iosef to come into his home and to take that very last shred of peace and hope from him—

The elevator rattles to a stop and you pull the door to one side, stepping out.

“I apologise, Mr. Wick,” Charon’s smooth voice reaches your ears and your head jerks towards the reception desk. “But I cannot give out information about other guests.”

John stands facing the concierge, his back to you, and seeing him in his old suit takes you back five years. It’s both devastating and chilling to see him back here. The lobby may look different but this moment is like watching a memory loop.

“I just need to talk to her.”

He sounds—

Charon’s expression doesn’t ease. “I apologise, sir Wick, but we respect the individual privacy of those that stay with us. Even if you were once…_associates_.” 

The slight edge in Charon’s voice surprises you. It’s not the kind of thing you would expect from him, especially considering that Charon and John have always had an amicable relationship. But that’s in the past, you remind yourself. It’s been five years since they’ve last seen each other.

“It’s okay, Charon,” you interrupt, walking up to the reception table and ignoring the many curious stares that you can feel drilling into you. “I’ve been expecting him.”

John turns upon hearing your voice and you meet his stare evenly.

Scraps and bruises mar his face, and you bite back a sarcastic comment about how he must be losing touch. But the time of teasing and ease between you has long since passed.

John doesn’t say anything to you but you see everything you need to know in his eyes. That, at least, hasn’t changed. He’s only guarded when he wants to be.

“Only Winston can reach me,” you remind the concierge without breaking eye contact with John, and incline your head towards the elevator.

You turn without waiting for a reply and start heading back, your eyes sliding over the curious onlookers with a clear warning. Most drop their eyes but a few brave enough still hold your stare, gaping openly. John follows behind you silently and comes to stand at your side, both of you waiting for the elevator to arrive down without a word.

The journey to your room is deafeningly quiet and little by little you keep adding to your armour. This will be a storm to weather, and you need to be ready.

“Same room,” John notes calmly. “Some things don’t change.”

“And some do,” you remark pointedly and invite him inside. “Water?”

He shakes his head, and you gesture for him to sit down, which he does.

John is rigid. As always his features are calm, but an old, familiar tension lines his frame and you drop down on the seat in front of him. The very same chair that Santino sat in only a few days ago. If you inhale deep enough you can still pick up faint traces of his cologne.

John gazes at you for a long moment but you don’t rush ahead. You simply sit there, already knowing what he wants, but hearing it from his mouth is a whole other matter. So you wait, expectant.

“He killed my dog.”

You stare at him flatly, still silent. John, seeing no reaction, leans closer and it’s hard to look into his dark eyes. You’ve spent so much time looking up to him—_at_ him—that it makes you feel caught between two different times in your life. The past with him in it, and the present where there’s just you and a sparse few individuals you consider your own.

“Where is he?”

Your smile is slow coming before you chuckle, shaking your head as you lean back in your chair, staring at him through narrowed eyes.

You understand his grief and anger and need for revenge. That’s all perfectly fine with you. Those things are familiar, safe. Those emotions embody you both in different ways—always have. 

_But_—

“Do you have any idea what you are asking of me?” you wonder idly, softly, gazing at him pensively.

John’s lips press together and his head lowers for a moment though you don’t miss the flash of guilt there.

So he _is_ aware, at least there’s that.

For a minute, you’re both silent; he with his head bowed as if repentant, and you with an icy, hard stare that won’t let him escape now. If he _wants_ this, if he really believes he has _any_ right to ask it of you, you will hear it directly from his mouth.

“I know it’s a lot—”

“_No_,” you cut him off immediately, rising to your feet and your hands clench into fists as you round the seat, not looking at him. That bitter, cold hurt floods your veins once again and your teeth grit harshly. “You have _no_ idea what you’re asking of me. Even if I knew where the hell Iosef Tarasov spends his time—which I sure as hell _don’t_—do you have any idea what happens to me if I tell you?”

John looks up at you, but his voice is calm as always when he speaks. “No one will ever know that it was you—”

“You are asking me to throw away _seven years_ of hard work,” you whisper but the quietness of your words slices through the room like a scream. Your eyes meet John’s and you wonder if your wariness and disappointment are as clear to him as they are inside your chest. “Seven _years_ of murdering in that man’s name, and now that I am a breath away from freedom, you ask this of me? Tarasov will know that it was me because he knows _you_ would go to _me_ first. Even if he doesn’t get to me himself, you already know what the High Table will do to me for such a betrayal.”

“After Helen—” he begins and his voice catches, his low baritone trembling. He blinks, his head lowering and you swallow weakly, turning your head away from him. His pain is too raw and you don’t want it to soften your heart, to drive you to him again. It’s no longer your job to comfort him. “After she died. That dog is all I had, (Name). My _only_ hope. I was no longer alone. I know you understand that better than anyone.”

You do. You _did_.

Once you would have waded through a river of blood for him with a smile on your face. Once you thought you understood him better than anyone, and him you.

“We were close once, John,” you admit even though it sounds like a hilarious understatement of what you had. “But that door closed a _long_ time ago. I can’t help you.”

John’s lips part to reply but the shrill ring of your phone fills the air and your eyes flutter closed before you pull it from your pocket.

Your heartbeat jumps at the name reflecting back at you.

_Santi._

Not looking at John, you answer, lifting the device to your ear. It’s an effort to force your voice into neutrality. “Hey, grumpy,” you greet with a slight smile. “How is Vancouver treating you?”

A chuckle sounds on the other side and your smile widens. “_Ah_, _cara mia_. Rather cold,” he notes pleasantly though still manages to sound petulant about it. “And very boring without you here to keep me company. Business is good though.”

“Good,” you say, and stare at your dark carpet with dread coiling your stomach. “Listen, can I call you back later? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

“I’ve heard about John. I assume you have as well.”

You go still. For a second, you think even your heart skips a beat. Except it’s the exact opposite of a happy sensation. 

“Yes.”

There is a pause. In the distance, you think you can hear the sound of rushing water. Santino likes being near water. It reminds him of home—of his childhood and his mother. For a moment, you almost wish you were there with him instead of here. Here in this room with the personification of your heartache and lost love sharing your breathing space. 

“Have you talked to him?”

Even though it pains you to do so, you can’t force yourself to lie to him. “Yes.”

You know he gleans as much from your tone and answer as you do from his silence. The suffocating, dreadful silence that is so unlike him—especially with you.

“Is he with you right now?”

His voice is quiet, his accent heavier as if the words take substantial effort to get out, and you work your jaw restlessly.

“Yes.”

The silence on the other side is an endless, ugly thing and you feel oddly helpless. You don’t like how this is making you feel. You don’t like the fact that you are forced into this situation in the first place.

“I see,” he says, at last, his voice stilted. You don’t miss the switch to Italian either. “Do look after yourself, cara.” 

“Santino—”

From the corner of your eye, you spot John’s head snap in your direction, his eyes full of surprise.

But the line goes dead. Your hand lowers and you stare at the phone for a second, your fingers tightening around it. It doesn’t ring again.

“Santino?” John wonders and his quiet voice is loaded with things unsaid.

You don’t look at him when you answer. “He’s my friend.”

It feels hollow saying it. Because he _is_ that but—

_I am a patient man. I can wait._

“Santino doesn’t have friends,” John points out neutrally, and you feel your head slowly turn in his direction. Whatever he sees on your face seems to give him a pause.

“He does _now_.”

This time the silence between you is different. For the first time since your reunion at the cemetery, John seems to be looking at you with different eyes. Fresh eyes that finally understand the passage of time. Eyes that note the difference in the way you hold yourself. In the way you no longer lean into his shadow hoping to make it your home.

You are your own shadow now.

“What I said earlier still stands,” you tell him flatly, finally putting your phone away even though it sits like a heavy weight in your pocket. “I can’t help you. I understand, I _do_. But I’m not going to forfeit my life for this.”

John stands, coming closer. “(Name)—”

You turn away from him, heading towards the door. “But I’m not the only individual residing in this building with the power to help you.”

Glancing over your shoulder, you see him straighten, understanding shining in his eyes. 

* * *

The bar is a buzz.

It’s Friday night so you suppose that should not surprise you that much.

The stares that follow you and John even more so.

For most, seeing you together is either a novelty or a call from the past. You’re unsure how it makes you feel. It’s as simple, as comfortable, by John’s side as it's always been. But you lack the ease you once carried around him. Back then your trust in him was so absolute but now only pieces of it remain.

Perkins spots you, her pretty lips twisting into a sneer when you wink at her, her expression relaxing only when she sees John next to you. She salutes him with her drink and it makes you smirk.

Aiming high as always.

Envy and jealousy have always been easy for her. She’s never been able to let go of the knowledge that she’s in your shadow; her accomplishments always being compared to what _you_ have achieved in the past. You’ve never intended for there to be bad blood between you but it seems that you both carry a natural dislike for one another.

After Santino, however, she no longer approaches you as brazenly as she once did.

Remembering that confrontation still makes you grin.

Winston sits in his booth as per usual when you approach him, working; a drink and a cigarette in front of him. You smile despite yourself.

“Martini kind of night, is it?” you call as you come to a stop before him, and his head lifts at the sound of your voice. He registers the sight in front of him and leans back slowly, taking you both in while you stand side-by-side. “Brought you a guest.”

“Winston,” John greets, and the warmth in his voice is genuine. It doesn’t surprise you though. These two men were friends once. Perhaps not the same level of friendship as you and John but there’s still enough history between them. “Good to see you.”

“Well, well,” Winston begins, pleased, a smile lingering on his face. “This is a sight I never thought I’ll get to see again. The Boogeyman and the Viper, together again. Reunion of the century, if I do say so myself. Sit down, Johnathan. You as well, dear,” he adds when he notices you eyeing the bar.

You hesitate but sit down after both men fix you with an expectant stare.

Your eyes track the people inside the room, most either openly staring or whispering under their breaths when they look towards your booth.

“Have you really thought this through?” Winston’s question brings you back to the present, and his voice carries a note of something almost patronising. Like John is already in too deep and has no idea how much worse it can get. “I mean _really_ chewed it down to the bone. You put so much as a pinky back into this pond, and you may find that something latches on and drags you back to its depths.”

“I just want his son.”

You click your tongue before Winston can answer and give John a sideways look. “Let me tell you something interesting about Viggo and Iosef, John,” you say, your voice forcefully calm as your fingers drum against the pocket where your phone sits. “Iosef is a spoiled, rotten little bastard who’s going to run his father’s empire to the ground because he lacks the drive and the spine to carry his work through. Viggo knows this too. That being said, make _no_ mistakes. If you go after his son, Viggo will unleash _hell_ upon you. Do you really think he will let his only son’s killer live on in peace? You _know_ what kind of man he is.”

_A man like us._

Tarasov is a different side to the violence and the hardship that has forged you and John. He’s the power, the influence, the order. You and John are the cruxes, the foundation, the bricks he used to achieve those things with.

Winston takes a small sip of his Martini, his gaze both amused and pointed. “She speaks the truth. And I would encourage you to listen.”

You blink, shooting a brief look of surprise Winston’s way but the man only smiles faintly.

John looks unhappy but knows better than to argue. Despite his silence, you know that he will not drop this. He _can’t._ He doesn’t have it in him; the capacity to let this go.

John Wick is only a hurricane you can weather and hope for the best.

“You are amongst friends here, Johnathan,” the manager states and you know from his tone that he means you specifically. Old, sly bastard. “Now might be the perfect time to sit down, have a drink, and _relax_. Work through old problems to gain fresh…perspectives.”

It’s an endeavour to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“I need a drink,” you mutter instead, rising from your seat and wandering towards the bar. 

Then, somewhere between the booth and the bar, it _hits_ you. Like a brick to the face and you practically collapse onto the small chair.

_John is back._

Back here in your atmosphere again. Till now it’s been like some surreal illusion with the added benefit of his presence never fully sinking in.

But he’s _back_.

Your muscles tense when he comes to a stop behind you, hesitating, before slowly lowering himself down beside you.

He’s come back to this world, just like the Bowery King said that he might, but not for the reason you might have hoped.

When the King said he might come back, there had been a tiny hope in your chest that if—_if_—he really did come back that it would be for _you_. Because, perhaps, if nothing else, he wants to be with you as a partner if not a lover. That perhaps he wants to try and mend the deep-running hurt between you.

But no.

John is _not_ sitting beside you because he wants to be with you. Not even because he wants to be back in this world.

He’s back because he wants revenge. Because his wife’s dog was killed—his last connection to her—and now he has nothing.

Perhaps, it could have been different if you’ve stayed that night of the funeral when he asked you to.

But, perhaps, you would have also lost whatever little of your old self still remained if you did.

_I will never abandon you._

Your heart clenches at the sudden, unbidden memory. _Santino_.

“You really have changed,” John speaks up suddenly, glancing your way. His eyes focus on your hands and he visibly hesitates. “You don’t wear it anymore.”

Your fingers curl loosely at his observation and you stare at the bar blankly. It’s true that his viper ring no longer lives on your hand but you wish it were _that_ simple.

“I survived,” is all you offer in reply; an echo of his words from seemingly a lifetime ago now. “I survived.”

_Without you_, goes on unsaid but you know he gets your deeper meaning by the way he looks away from you. As if ashamed.

Addy brings your usual and you observe her open delight at seeing John again.

“Hell, it’s _so_ good to see you both together again,” she exclaims with a bright grin. “Just like old times, huh?”

John dips his head in a nod with a discreet look in your direction. You don’t say anything. 

“Compliments of the house,” she announces as she places a drink in front of him as well.

Something scribbled on the napkin catches your eye and you suck in a sharp breath.

_Red Circle._

You both turn around almost immediately, looking towards Winston’s booth. The man smiles slightly, enigmatic as always, and raises his glass to you in a silent cheer.

John’s heavy stare moves to rest on you, but you keep eye contact with Winston for a moment longer. You’re not sure what exactly the look in his eyes means, but when you finally do look towards John what you see there surprises you.

He looks _hopeful_.

So hopeful that for a moment it clenches your stomach and heart like an unyielding fist.

In that look, you see years of partnership, of protecting each other, of being a _team_. A lethal, harmonious duet of death.

But you’re not that anymore.

You are you, and John is John. A grieving husband.

Not yours—_never yours_—and you’ve accepted that a long time ago.

And yet.

He _still_ calls to you.

Even through the pain and the rage, there’s still an ember of _something_.

But even so.

Your head turns back towards the bar, your drink, and you force out a choked, “Happy hunting.”

He lingers for a breath, his disappointment palpable before he walks away without another word.

You don’t look back at him as he leaves. 

* * *

Your steps cut a tight line. Back and forth, back and forth. Agitated.

“I’m surprised.”

“Don’t be. Playing coy doesn’t suit you.”

A laugh. Amused. “Then I shall exercise patience.”

“You do that.”

You don’t wait for an answer.

_ **. **_

_ **.** _

The line crackles on the sixth ring. Not that you expect anything else. He likes to keep you waiting.

Silence greets you.

“I need your help.”

“_You_,” is the soft disbelieving murmur. “Need _my_ help?”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

You hear a sigh on the other side, reluctant but open, and don’t bother holding back your victorious smile. 

* * *

By the time you stagger out of the bar, you have come to two conclusions.

One, you did the right thing by not getting involved.

Despite the feeling of guilt that has tried to drag you from your seat and after John, you’re glad that you stayed in your spot and chatted with Addy for hours instead. You might have felt Winston’s stare burn into the back of your head a few times but he didn’t call for you and you certainly didn’t go to him either.

The second conclusion is that you need to talk to Santino. As soon as possible. 

Address everything from start to finish. Plan your next step. Find whoever knows about Chicago. That’s where your priorities now lay. Tarasov can ring the dinner bell for the last job whenever he feels ready to do so, but as of right now, there are more pressing issues on your plate.

John’s appearance may have caught you off guard but your life doesn’t just stop.

If Iosef is not dead yet, he soon will be and you can’t imagine John coming back. Properly this time.

You certainly can’t imagine him coming back and actually _staying_. Not for you, at least.

“(Name).”

“_Jesus!_”

“Not quite,” is the wry, laboured reply. 

John staggers on his feet and you move on instinct, wrapping your arms around him. He looks like he’s just been through a war zone, covered in blood and clothes ripped. His raven hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and he gasps when you press too hard on his no doubt many bruises.

“What the hell John?”

“He’s gone,” he breathes harshly, not answering you. The look in his eyes is difficult to pinpoint but it’s not happy that’s for sure. He leans into you willingly when you help him walk towards the reception desk though. “I didn’t get to him in time.”

Iosef.

Unease coils your insides.

You had hoped that John would succeed on his first attempt. Now, there’s no telling what’s coming. Or where the brat is, for that matter.

“Miss Vipress,” Charon greets, his expression vacant before his eyes move towards John and his eyebrow cocks slightly. “Mr. Wick.”

“Call Doc, please,” you request, awkwardly fishing out a golden coin and dropping it on the counter. “Tell him I have first aid covered.”

“Certainly,” the concierge answers, nodding his head. “Anything else? Some bourbon, perhaps?”

He directs the last part towards John who grunts and nods, making you roll your eyes. Shooting a grateful look at the man, you half walk, half-stumble John towards the elevator. The ride up consists of you mostly poking holes in his clothes and checking his vitals.

John, as always, stays upright by sheer will alone. Some things, perhaps, really don’t change after all.

His room lacks the lived-in touch your own has when you enter. It’s cold and clinical. You spot his bag neatly placed in the corner but otherwise, not a single particle of dust seems to be out of place. When compared to your own room full of vials, notes, and odd-smelling plants and herbs, this place is like a hospital.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” you grunt without thinking as you help him sit down, huffing from the strain of his weight. “Sincerely hope you _know_ that.”

John glances up at you, his eyes brighter than they were moments before, and a slight smile twitches his lips. The first you’ve seen since your reunion.

“I know,” he replies and there’s that wry humour to be found in his tone that makes you glare at him in annoyance. “You’ve told me plenty of times in the past.”

Your lips part to reply—a jab ready to go—but there’s a knock on the door and you move towards it, your hand hovering over one of your blades.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice calls out and your hand drops down as you pull the door open.

“Doc,” you greet the elderly man with a nod. “Good to see you. You were quick.”

The older man shuffles into the room right away, his bag in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in another. He places the drink on the coffee table, his disapproval clear, but starts setting out his tools without commenting.

“I was in the area,” he shoots back, casting a look at John and then back at you. “You did not work together?”

The silence his question births is an awkward one, and you pointedly look away when Doc asks John to start removing his clothes.

“No, we didn’t,” you confirm calmly, carefully so, and grab an empty glass to use. “Got my new shipment yet?”

The older man looks up at you with a shake of his head and you dip your head in understanding. John observes the exchange, seemingly confused, and it’s yet another reminder that he has no idea how your relationships have changed in the past five years. Because he hasn’t been a _part_ of your world for five years.

“You could have done this yourself,” the man comments lightly, shooting you a quick look. “I passed my knowledge on for more than poison making.”

You walk up to them, offering the glass to John who takes it with a grateful nod but don’t miss the way he focuses on your exchange with Doc. Curious and more than a little confused.

“Yes, but poison making is so much _simpler_,” you shoot back with a slight smile. “And you’re better at stitching than I am. Your hands are steadier.”

The old man shakes his head, clicking his tongue, and gives you a reproachful look over his shoulder. “Your hands are plenty steady, girl,” he notes, and you don’t miss the slightly chiding note in his words. Your eyes lock with John’s and you bob your head from side to side mimicking Doc’s words, a joking smile on your face. “What you lack is the belief that those hands are good for something other than bloodshed.”

Perhaps.

No, _definitely_, but neither of them needs to know that.

“Whatever you say, Doc,” you mutter, passing him some bandages without looking.

A tiny, barely-there smile lingers across John’s face, and despite being half undressed and bruised from head to toe, he looks more at ease now than he has in a while.

You know why.

Because despite everything unsaid and things long since passed, this is familiar. This is _safety_. This has been your bread and butter for years, and you feel the warmth of this simplicity sink back into your bones with every inhale.

It makes you as happy as it makes you sad.

John peers at you over Doc’s shoulder, and you at him, neither of you speaking while the man between you works. He’s methodical and always takes his time but his hands are the best you can hope for in New York.

“Just like the old times,” Doc hums under his breath after a lull of silence between you. “Hopefully better fortune will follow you from now on, Mr. Wick.”

It _does_ feel like before. When it was just the two of you against the world.

You rise to your feet abruptly, making both men look over in your direction.

“I’m going to get you something for the pain,” you inform them hurriedly, and you can see the worry in John’s dark eyes, and attempt to smile convincingly. “The Doc is almost done anyway. Try resting.”

“But you _are_ coming back?” he checks and you offer him a tight smile.

“Of course.” 

Your words sound faint, almost distant in your ears, and you close your eyes for a moment, trying to keep your composure. 

It’s an effort to keep your steps steady and slow before you close the door behind you.

* * *

It takes you longer than necessary to get the vial of pain remedy you’ve made for yourself a while back.

That’s because the journey back to your room is a blur, and when you do get inside the familiar walls, it takes you several moments to pull yourself together.

Is it possible to hate and miss someone in the same breath?

Is it possible to turn a blind eye to years of struggling and pain just for the sake of having something good back?

Rubbing your forehead harshly, you stare at the vial in your hand, a heavy throb quaking your heart.

Everything has a price as Santino is so fond of reminding you, and it makes you wonder what price this will demand of you.

Locking the door to your room, you approach the elevator, ignoring the buzzing of the phone in your pocket. Frankly, you’re not in the mood to talk to the Pope himself right now—much less anyone else.

The elevator grinds to a halt and you push the partition to the side but the moment you do, a crash greets your ears. A cool blade slips into your palm and you tense. Across the corridor, John’s room door is wide open and you spot Perkins of all people crawling closer towards you.

She looks bruised and bloodied as she tries to get away and you move towards her.

The blade almost takes off her ring finger as it sinks into the carpet in front of her face and she freezes.

“Now whatever are _you_ doing here?” you question coldly, grabbing your gun from underneath your jacket. “Late night tryst?”

Perkins glares up at you, her expression livid before she tries to grab the blade in front of her but you react faster by stomping on her hand and levelling the gun in front of her face. “Please try,” you state lightly, almost pleasant.

John staggers out of the door, looking in an even rougher shape than before. His side is dark with fresh blood, the stitches Doc has so meticulously sown clearly torn, and he leans heavily against the door for a second. Your eyes meet and you finally understand exactly what has happened.

Perkins has tried to complete a hit on John _inside_ the Continental. Tarasov is scared enough to allow such a thing to be associated with his name, regardless of the consequences. Scared enough to allow for one of the unbreakable rules of your world to be broken in his name.

John stalks closer towards you and you move back, still keeping the gun on Perkins. She’s a slippery one and you would rather not take any chances.

“You okay?” you ask, not dropping your eyes from the furious woman on the ground.

The assassin grunts with a nod and grabs Perkins, pulling her up till the muzzle of his gun presses into her cheek. The woman squirms but John’s grip only tightens. He’s done playing games and you can tell this will not end well for Perkins unless she gives him what he wants.

“Where is Iosef?”

Perkins snarls, twisting inside his hold, but still winces when John pushes the gun deeper into her skin; a silent warning. To her credit, she doesn’t falter, which is not something you can say about many. “I’m not telling you _shit_.”

“Please don’t,” you input with a mocking little smile that you’ve seen Santino use so many times in the past, effectively catching her attention. A perfect trick to heat someone’s blood and get them to slip up. “I have means by which to make you talk.”

The woman grunts under her breath, more blood smudging across her lips, and shoots you a venomous look. “_Fuck you_. You know what will happen to you—”

John jerks her to the side roughly, silencing her, and your arm lowers at his chilly whisper, “Give me _something_, Perkins. This is not worth dying for.”

She swallows, a flicker of healthy fear twitching her pinched expression at last. You step closer, the silent threat obvious, and her glare sharpens.

“He’s going to hunt you both down like _dogs_,” she spits instead, meeting your stare with a wide grin. Her bloodstained teeth make for a gory sight and you feel your expression harden at her words. “He will get this entire city searching for you. He—”

“The church,” you interrupt her little rant, and her mouth snaps shut at your blunt statement. “Tarasov keeps his personal stash of blackmail there. As well as a lot of money. You want him? Take him through that.”

Both Perkins and John stare at you. One in disbelief and one in silent understanding. John knows what this means but, predictably, it’s Perkins that reacts outwardly.

“You traitorous bitch!” she snarls, her eyes wide as she trashes again. “When Viggo learns about this he will _destroy_ you—”

John drives the butt of the gun against her temple and she slumps to the floor, unconscious. For a moment it’s so still that your breathing seems like the loudest sound in New York City.

“Do I know you?”

You jerk to the side, your gun flying up as you point it at the man standing in the doorway of one of the rooms. But your arms lower a moment later when the familiar features register.

“I think so,” John speaks slowly, carefully twisting around to look at the newcomer too.

“Harry,” you greet the older man and he nods at you with a smile. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Better,” he answers and his attention goes back to your old partner. “John. Good to see you again. For a moment I thought you were getting into trouble with D’Antonio again, V.”

Purposely turning your head away from them, you slot your gun back in its original place, giving them a clipped, “Not this time.”

You feel John’s focus on you for a moment before his scrutiny lets up and he stands.

“You still up for earning a coin, Harry?”

* * *

The church looks peaceful in the early morning light.

John stands beside you, his warmth a faint brush in the chilly New York air, and you find yourself shivering despite your best effort not to.

The silence between you is—despite what you first assumed would be the case—heavy. John wants to ask you, and you don’t want him to. When faced with the question of why you are doing this, placing yourself in danger for him yet _again_, it always comes back to a simple fact.

For _yourself_.

Not for him. At least, that’s what you have to convince yourself of.

You and Tarasov have your own unfinished business.

Things always come full circle. Finally, after all these years, you are starting to understand Santino’s philosophy. Things always have a way of following you, never allowing you a moment of peace. You can run from them, but ghosts have a way of clawing their way back into your life.

_You will always make the same mistakes, viper._

You shiver at the memory, shoving it away harshly. 

“He has a vault under the church,” you break the silence between you, and feel his head turn in your direction. “The security is minimal because not many go to a church with intention of breaking into it, and he doesn’t want to draw attention. That’s its genius. But if you want Tarasov’s attention this is the way to get it.”

“You don’t have to come,” he states mildly, though sounds almost reluctant to do so. You don’t look at him, still focused on the building before you. It seems to loom now; a tall, frightening skeleton of your past. “I know the risk you’re taking right now. I—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt him, and finally look towards him. “This is not the time for this conversation. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for _me_.”

John hesitates and turns to face you fully. His eyes catch the light and you’re unsurprised to find that they still reflect amber in direct sunlight. The brightness strips away at his dark demeanour and leaves only a man behind. A good man, despite his flaws—despite his grief and thirst for vengeance.

“If this goes badly,” he begins softly and pauses for a second as if searching for the right words. “I want you to run. _Promise_ me you will.”

Even though your hands are buried in your jacket pockets, your fingers still clench tightly at his words. It’s impossible _not_ to miss his concern for your wellbeing.

“_Run_,” you repeat slowly, rolling the word on your tongue, tasting it. “You know I did a lot of that in the beginning. Running. It’s _all_ I did. Just to stay alive. But then I realised that _I_ shouldn’t be the one doing the running. So I don’t anymore.”

He knows what you’re referring to. Those five years are splitting you apart like a bottomless chasm even though there’s less than a footstep between you. The five years in which you had to defend yourself while he lived his happy life with his beautiful wife. 

“Let’s do this, shall we?”

You take a step forward but John’s hand halts you, resting against the crook of your elbow. On instinct, your own arm snaps out, striking his wrist to get rid of his touch. You suck in a sharp breath when you realise what you’ve just done, heartbeat galloping, and John’s expression creases with worry, sadness, _understanding_.

“_Don’t touch me_,” you force out because it _hurts_. His touch burns and it’s not the kind of pleasant warmth that once soothed you. “Just—_don’t_.”

Pivoting, you march towards the church, your jaw set and lips pressed in a tight line. Your heartbeat still betrays you though; a fluttering, tiny bird trying to escape its own cage of bones.

Despite your exchange only moments prior, you still wait by the door for John who catches up with you quickly. He falls to your side—an old, familiar routine you’ve done dozens of times even if it’s been years—and sharing a glance, move inside on his signal.

The door creaks open and you note the usual suspects sitting in their pews as you stroll inside.

Much like you predicted, and told John earlier, the priest falters upon seeing your face. There’s a moment of fleeting panic there, and you know that he’s wondering if Tarasov himself is a step behind you. You only ever come to the church if the man demands it of you, and it effectively sows doubt and confusion when you notice more eyes look towards you. But the priest doesn't know who John is so, as per instruction, he plays the role assigned to him.

“My children, can I help you?”

“Yes,” you state amiably and pull out your gun, pointing it at him. “You can.”

You then shoot him in the leg.

It’s a flurry of who can pull the trigger faster. The guards, caught unaware and panicked, are nowhere near quick enough. You count four that drop to the ground dead, and John shoulders his machine gun calmly, looking unruffled. The old lady continues sitting inside the pew, staring at you wide-eyed, and you give her a small wave when you pass her by.

“I always wanted to do that,” you comment offhandedly, tilting your head to observe the squirming man. “He’s a shit priest.”

John nods his head a little, considering, and the priest shoots you an enraged glare.

“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” he splutters, clutching onto his bleeding leg. “You traitorous _trash_! Viggo will—”

You kick him in the leg. The man lets out a strangled little yell, curling in on himself. John gives you a look as if to say he understands what you meant earlier, and grabs the priest by the scruff of his neck.

“Yeah, we do actually,” he replies dryly in Russian and shoves the priest ahead of you. “Take us to the vault.”

“N-No.”

You pull out a blade, twisting it between your fingers. “_Do_ disagree with him again. Then I get my hands on you.”

The priest stumbles back, his frantic stare switching from you to John, clearly trying to find a way out of his predicament. The assassin gestures with the barrel of his gun and the priest swallows, stumbling in the direction of the staircase.

Just as you recall, there are two more guards downstairs, and disposing of them is easy; a bullet each. Tarasov’s vault stands like an indestructible gate between you and the women inside who scream upon seeing you. The destructive sound of gunshots split the air and then it’s quiet again.

“Open it,” you demand, gesturing at the keypad. “I know Tarasov gave you the code.”

The priest lays on the floor, shivering, as beads of sweat cling to his brow. Though his lips are trembling from both pain and terror, he still musters up a half-hearted glare.

“But not _you_,” he hisses in Russian, knowing and accusatory. “Viggo must have always known that you will try to betray him.”

You chuckle, and lean closer, patting him on the shoulder with a patronising smile. This, too, is a familiar motion. The priest cringes back and you see the naked fear in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t doubt _that_,” you admit coolly with a faint hum as you glance towards the trembling women inside the vault. “Guess I’m just done playing nice. _Open it_, or I’m going spill your guts all over this shiny, reflective floor that Tarasov gets you to scrub every night.”

The priest shudders, staring at you in dismay, but still moves to do as you told him. Ignoring John’s burning, silent stare you wait for the code to be input.

John enters the moment the _beep_ sounds and you stay silent as he dismisses the women inside—ever the gentleman—and starts tearing the vault apart. You watch him do so, and it gives you a wicked surge of satisfaction, knowing just how much this all means to Tarasov. A lot of it is your own work; different blackmail that you have painstakingly collected for him over the years. Despite that knowledge, it doesn’t upset you to see it go up in smoke.

The flame rages, angry and hot, and you linger for a moment, observing years of servitude disappearing in front of your eyes. It makes you feel strangely empty, almost numb.

_You’re dead to the world_, Kishi’s voice reminds you and you feel your eyes lower to the floor.

John doesn’t try to ask you questions while you wait for Tarasov’s arrival and you’re grateful for it. Right now, you don’t think you’re capable of any kindness. Right now, you think you would tell him _everything_, and if there’s anything of his heart still left, it would simply break all over again.

With the priest alive, the news reaches Tarasov quickly, and his familiar black SUV pulls into the churchyard only ten minutes later. The priest, predictably, doesn’t survive past telling his side of the story in choked, weak stutters.

“Let’s finish this,” John tells you calmly, deadly so, but your gaze lingers on Tarasov who is like a caged animal moving with clear fury in his every step. “After today we’re both free.”

Your head snaps in his direction but he’s already walking away and you peer at his back for a moment.

_Free_.

Shooting one last glance towards that churchyard, you follow after him.

Coming to a stop beside him, you both wait, silent and focused as you hear Tarasov and his party approaching. John looks up at you, serious as always, and you simply peer at him for a moment. All this time, hoping that he will be back and he finally is. He’s a step away, a hand reach away but—

John opens fire first. He always believed in best defence being a strong offence and the guards scatter, replying in kind with their own weapons drawn. Exhaling slowly, you steel yourself for what’s about to happen, and round the corner, opening fire yourself.

As always, you work as a seamless machine. With John at your back, there are no blind spots, no ways to get caught off guard. You cover each other perfectly, a well-oiled death machine that churns out bodies left and right.

John reloads, and you cover him. You duck to do the same a moment later, and John takes your place, covering you with his back to you. Your eyes flicker over him and towards the car behind which Tarasov is hiding. From this far, you can just barely make out his hat as he rises to peek at the situation.

You rise to your feet smoothly and slam the back of your gun against John’s head.

The bullets cut out immediately and John staggers, turning around hurriedly, but you spray fine mist—one of your fastest, most viciously effective formulas—in his face, kicking at his shins for good measure.

He stumbles to the ground, looking up at you wildly, gasping, “(_Name_)—”

His stare is lost, frantic. Almost like what he’s seeing and what has just happened are two things not connecting just yet, leaving blind confusion in their wake.

“I told you,” you remind him gently, coldly, as you approach him. “I’m doing this for _me_.”

You don’t wait for the paralyser to kick in.

Your gun slams against his temple one last time and he drops to the side, unconscious.

The churchyard is once again peacefully tranquil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shocked Pikachu. jpg*
> 
> I feel like the first half of the chapter was Team John going “Yay!” and Team Santino going “Boo!” and then by the end that switched lol. 
> 
> Loved it? Hated it? Any predictions? Let me know and, as always, I love you all.


	7. this vengeance is mine;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wait for the relief, for the triumph, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay,,, please don't kill me. I've been incredibly busy but figured that new chapter > comment replies. I'm going to be taking a slight break so those comments WILL be replied to! Thank you for reading!

Tarasov laughs, low and deep, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. Your muscles are so tense they tremble, and it’s an effort to not break his arms but you manage to contain yourself, your expression carefully blank. He grins at you widely, and his clear pride turns your stomach.

“Aye, aye, all these years,” he mutters thoughtfully, turning your head slightly from side to side. “And it is _now_—pretty last fucking minute too—that you go ahead and make me proud, eh?”

For a moment you both simply gaze at each other, considering, assessing.

“Little viper,” he hums in Russian, rolling the sounds with quiet approval. “My _vicious_ little viper. Seems like my faith has been rewarded after all. Well done, well done. You went ahead and brought me back Baba Yaga _himself_.”

He pats your cheek once, his touch a gentle mockery of the last time he did it years ago, and his hands drop away.

You then realise why.

John is awake.

He’s coming around slowly—a side effect of the solution you know he inhaled before he went down—but he will be fully awake soon enough. Blood stains his temple and his chin turns slightly from side to side. He’s trying to gather himself, subtly checking for wounds, and testing how tight his binds are.

You know because he was the one to teach you these things.

It’s an interesting reversal of situations.

Avi pulls out a chair for Tarasov and the man shrugs off his coat, sitting himself down in front of his old associate.

“There is,” he begins snippily. “A certain _audacity_ about you. Though I admit, you are still the John Wick of the old.”

Tarasov chuckles under his breath, but John doesn’t seem to be listening to what the man is saying. Instead, his dark eyes rise over his face, then his shoulder, and lock straight onto you.

“_Why_?”

Tarasov falls quiet. The hanger itself falls under a peculiar sort of hush; as dangerous as it is fragile.

You don’t look away from him. Your eyes remain locked because you are not ashamed, not afraid. But you do see hurt there. _Betrayal_. Something hidden and pained that he guards carefully.

“Because when you left, I went through _hell_ because of you,” you tell him simply, your voice devoid of emotion. “And now, you will know what that feels like.”

Tarasov laughs deeply, leaning back in his chair. John’s eyes remain locked with yours.

“Goodness, John,” he says, amused, and glances at Avi as if to see if the man finds it just as funny. “Even I know the old saying ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. You left her for another woman, got married, and now what? Did you expect her to run back into your loving arms again? Let’s not be naive here. People don’t change. Times they do. Some hurts never heal though and _hers_…”

Tarasov pauses, exhaling, and regards John with a thoughtful frown.

“You got out,” he continues. “Got married. And I had my son. Yours was a far better deal, I reassure you. But the way you did it. By _lying_ to yourself that your past doesn’t hold sway over the future. Lying to yourself that you have moved on, found _peace_. But, we are often rewarded for our misdeeds. Which is why God took your wife, John. And then unleashed you upon _me_.”

Tarasov glances over his shoulder and your eyes meet for a second. He shakes his head slightly with a small smile. “_But_ life has also rewarded me by giving me one of the very few capable of making you bleed. The Last Task and the Impossible Task. It ends how it began. Fine irony in that, don’t you think?”

John doesn’t answer him. His expression is guarded, composed, but his eyes keep flickering up to you. You meet his stare every time, unmoved.

Tarasov leans closer, his voice calmer now. “This life, John, it _follows_ you,” he insists tightly. “It clings to you, affecting everyone who comes close. It’s a slow-acting poison that eats away at everything you love till there’s nothing _left_. We are _cursed,_ the three of us,” he whispers, pointing his finger at each of you when he briefly glances in your direction again.

You feel yourself swallow.

He’s not wrong.

“On that,” John’s soft voice fills the air. “We _agree_.”

Tarasov makes a small sound of surprise, leaning back sharply as he stares at John in disbelief. “_Finally_. Common ground.”

John’s attention, for the first time, seems to focus solely on Tarasov and you know that this will not go down well before he even speaks. “Step aside, let me have your son.”

You almost shake your head. Hasn’t he listened to a _single_ thing you said to him? Iosef might be a good-for-nothing waste of space but he’s still Viggo’s son. His blood. Tarasov might not be Giovanni D’Antonio when it comes to the sheer ferocity with which he protects his own family, but you have seen enough of Tarasov to know that unless he has no other choice, he will protect his son.

The man hums, quiet and mocking, “John Wick, hm? _Baba Yaga_.”

He rises to his feet abruptly, his chair sliding back a few inches, and grabs his coat with enough force to make the material flutter. “It was just a fucking car. _It was just a fucking dog_.”

“Just a dog,” John echoes, sounding almost dazed. “Viggo.”

To his benefit, the Russian clearly still has enough respect for the assassin that he stops and lets him speak, his hands on his hips as he stares at the man expectantly.

“When Helen died, I lost everything,” John admits, his voice frayed with pain, and you see the potent grief in his eyes. For the first time, it also rings in his voice; a heart-wrenching symphony of loss. “I had nothing till that dog arrived on my doorstep; a final gift from my wife. Her gift of _hope_. A chance to grieve unalone when I realised that I had no one left.”

For a split second your eyes meet, and you recall that night too. His plea for you to stay, and you walking away from him. And despite everything, you still don’t regret it. Because this just confirms what you already guessed at then.

He wanted you to stay _not_ because he needed you but because he didn’t want to be _alone_. If you had stayed, it would have _destroyed_ you. You would have been trapped in a space that is not your own—could never be your own—and lived a lie. Pretending that you’re fine with the fact that he’s grieving for a woman he married and loved while you were hunted across the world. A woman he left you for even if it had been for your own protection too.

You would have wasted away, day after day, trying to live up to her ghost.

“But your son,” John continues and your skin crawls when, for the first time in a long time, you see pure fury split his stoic demeanour. “Took that from me, stole that from me, _killed that from me_.”

Tarasov turns to you with an irritated sigh and shoots you a look.

“People have been asking me if I’m back and I haven’t really had an answer for them,” John snarls, low and furious, and you realise that you have never seen his facade crack like this. Shatter and splinter so completely. “But now, yeah, I’m thinkin’ I’m _back_. So you can either hand over your son or _you can die screaming alongside him_!”

Tarasov’s men grab him when he jumps up from his seat and you release a shuddering breath, staring at him in mute shock.

The older man’s hand lands on your shoulder, purposeful, but his expression is serious, unforgiving. “All yours, little viper,” he informs you, and glances at the still struggling John one last time. “Make sure he _suffers_. Then, consider your debt repaid in full. Perhaps we can still discuss business after. What do you say?”

Your lips curl in disdain as you observe John, and when your eyes lift to Tarasov’s you have just the answer for him. “Sounds good, boss.”

Tarasov smiles, pleased, and pats your shoulder before shrugging on his coat and leaving the hanger with Avi. The latter man gives you a small nod when he passes of what—if you didn’t know any better—you would have considered respect, and follows after his boss.

One of the guards, having grown tired of the still struggling John, drags a plastic bag over his head, cutting off his air supply. You stare at the sight before you for a moment, trying to imagine what he must be feeling right now. You know very well the horrifying swell of panic that locks your muscles when you don’t have enough oxygen.

Kishi made sure you carry that fear with you to this day.

The burning of your lungs, the dizziness, the pressure in your head. The sheer agony of having life being slowly drawn out of you—the feeling of your cells dying, of your blood vessels rupturing.

The most sickening part is the fact that at first you don’t feel it, you simply _know_ it’s happening, and that makes it so much worse.

“Enough,” you tell them. “We don’t want him dead just yet.”

The guard obeys, loosening the bag before he takes it off and John gasps, sucking in sharp breaths of oxygen. Kirill’s expectant stare follows you as you step closer to John.

“(_Name_),” he gasps, breathing heavily. “I’m…_sorry_.”

You laugh in disbelief, turning away from him, and spin your face towards the window that allows light to stream inside.

“Oh, John,” you whisper sadly. “You’re always _sorry_. But it doesn’t change anything.”

You rub your nose once, grinning slightly.

A shot whistles through the room, hitting the second guard right in the head, his blood exploding everywhere. Kirill grabs his gun but one of your blades sinks into his throat before he can fire and he gapes at you, swaying. He takes a step closer and another, but you approach him calmly, and grabbing the blade still inside his neck drag it to one side viciously. Blood rains to the floor in a river of startling crimson and you step back, avoiding the deluge.

His shock is stark even when gravity finally drags him backward and he falls with a heavy thud to the floor. Your blade is still in your hand, now covered in blood, only free of its host.

Your head dips towards the window and you salute with it.

Marcus, as always, never misses his shots.

After all, who else were you going to ask for help? Despite not being on friendly terms, you still have John connecting you both. Despite everything, you’re both still individuals of loyalty above all else.

When you rang him, Marcus divulged how Tarasov came to him personally, asking him to kill John. Almost the same way he came to you, except he did not phrase it like an offer to you. No, Tarasov looked you in the eyes and told you a simple truth.

“_John Wick is your last job. Kill him and you’re free._” 

What other choice did you have than to play along till the time was right? What use would you have been to John when you were killed or hunted? Possibly made Excommunicado for this betrayal? If Tarasov caught up to him, you would have been his only shot of getting out alive. So you played along with the Russian, telling him that it will be your pleasure to kill John. That you want him to feel betrayed, hurt, _broken_ as you have been. Tarasov believed you because you didn’t need to fake your anger or hurt. Those have been real.

But the moment Tarasov learns of what you have done here, he will go straight to the High Table. Demand a hunt. And the rules of the old world will swing in the favour of your parents' killer. Because a debt remains unpaid.

One job. One _simple,_ fucking job.

A job that is John Wick.

A job worth failing.

“(Name),” is his gentle exhale of your name. “_Why_?”

Your head turns in his direction and you approach him slowly, going for his leg binds first. Even though he asked the exact same question no more than fifteen minutes ago, his tone couldn’t be more different. His first had been more of a demand, hidden hurt lacing his tone. His eyes raging with betrayal and confusion. Now, an understanding, disbelief. Sadness. Warmth.

“You were my dream once,” you admit quietly, your voice strangled. “The depth of my devotion to you…it had _no_ bounds. You could have asked me anything and I would have done it because I loved you that much.”

Your head rises, and you look him right in the eye. You’ve long since passed the point of feeling ashamed of your feelings.

“For me, happiness was being with you, John,” you admit and note how his expression creases with subtle, unspoken pain. You’re ripping into an old wound but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not right now. Not when this might be your only chance to say it. “I _always_ chose you. So choose _me _now. When Tarasov learns what happened here—he _will_ hunt us. You know he will. The High Table will demand my blood for breaking the contract before the debt was repaid.”

You stand, and lay your hands on his, gripping them tightly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Go somewhere no one is going to find us. Start a new life together.”

John gazes at you for a tense moment and then rises to his feet awkwardly. He doesn’t drop your hands, cradling them carefully in his own. You stare up at him, your heart galloping in your chest, and you don’t know what it is he sees on your face but you can only imagine the fragile hope. 

“I have to finish this.”

He might as well have screamed it. As loud and as wild as he did earlier with Tarasov.

But it’s a murmur. Because he always talks with you with a softness of a lover as he cuts into you, deeper and deeper each time.

Your expression drops and you swallow thickly, trying for a smile. 

“I know you do.”

Tugging your hands back, you step away from him, half-turning. 

“I promise to you,” he declares firmly. “I _will_ kill Tarasov.”

You smile wider, but it feels brittle on your lips; a broken, forced thing. 

“You won’t,” you breathe knowingly, and continue on before he can argue otherwise. “Because the only way to get to Iosef now is through his father, and you can’t kill Tarasov until you find him.”

John remains quiet and you chuckle though it sounds hollow in your own ears. “By which time it will already be too late,” you note weakly, turning away from him. 

“(Name)—”

“_Don’t._”

It’s a snarl; a wild, vicious noise that tears from deep within.

This time there will be no tears. You’ve stopped shedding those a long time ago, especially for him. And by this point, perhaps, you know better than to expect anything. Not from John who is so clearly still in love with his dead wife.

Revenge above all else—even you.

Your feet carry you away from him one steady step at a time. 

“You _will_ be free. I swear to you.”

You pause.

_Free?_

You don’t even know what that _is_ anymore. 

You walk away without a word.

* * *

_Winston,_

_If you’re reading this I’m dead. Don’t roll your eyes either, I’m allowed to be dramatic. I think. I never had to sit on my ass waiting for the final count but here we are. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe I’ve watched one too many movies. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave notes behind? I could run, of course, but how far would I really get? How many people would have to die as a result? I’ve ran for a long time, Winston. It’s all I know and I’m tired. I’m so **tired**. I think deep down I always knew that my story can only end one way. At least it wasn’t all bad. I’ve met some good people along the way, and isn’t that what life is all about?_

_God, am I getting philosophical? I guess you’ve rubbed off on me, old man. But I’m grateful. Despite everything, I think I will miss you quite a lot. My father cared but I don’t think he ever truly understood me. Not the way you do. Or did, I suppose. I’m grateful for all you have done for me. For the advice you gave me and the tough love I needed. I’m thankful that despite not liking Santino, you told me to take the Chicago job that day. That you understood how very close I had come to the edge when no one else did_. _That you were there for me in your own grumpy way, always._

_Thank you. Just **thank you**_.

_Everything I have, I leave to you. The formulas, the solutions, the poisons—everything that I am, that I have become, is yours now. You will find the vault codes on the other side of this letter. It’s the only way I know how to repay you. A gift of death. But it will keep you safe for a while longer. Keep our city in order, too, if you’re smart about this and I know that you are, you old bastard._

_But I suppose, if I could get one last wish from you, then I would ask you this: take my poison, go to the High Table, and feed it to the lot of them. Make them _ **_choke_ ** _on it._

_I know it’s unlikely you will ever take this kind of risk. But it sure as hell feels nice writing it._

_We had a good run, you and I._

_If I see you too soon though, you’ll never hear the end of it._

_See you in hell, old man._

_— your favourite little hatchling._

_P. S. I know you don’t like him. But **please**_, _next time you see Santino, give him the second letter. And tell him I’m sorry._

Your fingers loosen around the pen and you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, gently, you fold the piece of paper, slotting it into the crisp envelope before you. Taking the pen again, you scribble _Winnie_ on the front and place it next to another already sealed letter reading _Hey, Santi_.

Then, you take a moment to breathe. Simply count the beats of your own heart. Appreciate the seconds in which you are still, miraculously, alive. Maybe not whole. But still alive.

_Of course,_ you could run. _Of course,_ you could hide. Even fight.

But for how long?

Alone against the High Table. The highest power there is. How long would you last?

And you know better than that. You know that you won’t be alone.

Maybe Winston would hide you for as long as he could, get you out of the city, or help you in some other way. Santino sure as hell wouldn’t let this go. He would do something about it—something as drastic and as volatile as his nature. Ares, for once, would not try to argue him out of it, either.

And where would it all lead?

Even with all that help, it would still not be _enough_.

The High Table would punish them—if not outright kill them—for helping you, for covering for you, and you can’t let that happen.

That’s the one last thing you can still do for them. Keep them _safe_. Not give them the chance to get involved in this till it’s already too late. A clean break.

They’re yours—_your_ people; as odd and as twisted as you are—and you want to keep them away from this fallout.

Tarasov is a vengeful man. He will come to collect his dues soon enough in some shape or form.

_Let him have it. Let him indulge._

His son will be dead soon enough because there’s no stopping John now.

_John_.

You didn’t write a letter to him.

Most things that could’ve been said between you have already been said.

What’s the point of causing more hurt?

No, you don’t want to think about the bad. Not right now.

Right now there is no Kishi, no Tarasov, no pain or loneliness.

“_I think that you are lonely. I think that you are in pain but do not show it._”

_Santino_.

And Winston. And Ares. And Charon. Cassian and Gianna. Roberto. The Four.

Even _John_.

Your friends. At some point or another. The only people you’ve ever cared about.

You will miss them—even if some of them may not miss you back.

Standing, you wander towards the loveseat, sitting down heavily, and stare at the phone in your hand.

It’s an odd thing. There is no fear, not really. There is a feeling of sadness though. Like there is not enough time to do everything you want to do; a cold sense of things unfulfilled, and dreams undreamt. A part of you wishes you had enough time to visit the people that keep jumping through your mind. Give them all a proper goodbye. You don’t like the idea of leaving them grasping onto distant memories of you. But what else can you offer them now?

Sighing, you dial the first number in your _Recents_ and hold your breath.

It rings once and the line crackles to life.

It makes you smile. So _predictable_.

“_Ciao_, cara mia.”

His voice lacks the familiar sly edge. In fact, he sounds more subdued, guarded. But given your last conversation, perhaps it shouldn’t be that surprising. Santino has never bothered hiding his thoughts in regards to John. _None_ of those thoughts are kind. In any capacity. After everything you’ve gone through, experienced, it’s perhaps no wonder Santino dislikes him as much as he does.

He has seen the worst of the aftermath John’s departure caused.

He knows. He understands.

“Hey,” you breathe quietly, and remind yourself that you can’t give anything away. “Can you talk or—”

“I always have time for you,” he cuts in smoothly but his voice is still flat in comparison to his usual teasing. “I am, however, surprised to hear from you.”

_Ouch_. You deserve that one though. You never did call him back yesterday. Even if he was the one to end your call, he must have expected…something after. _Anything_.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him honestly, swallowing. “Things got out of hand yesterday. I—when are you coming back to New York?”

For a moment, the other end of the line is quiet. Then, a slow, chilly, “Are you well, bella? Did something happen?”

You have to nibble on your lips forcefully to stop yourself from breaking your composed demeanour. You know how he would react if you told him what has happened and it’s easier this way. By the time he’s back, you will likely be gone, and even though he will rage, he will be kept away from this. You don’t want to involve him more after the blow he suffered just days ago.

“_Always _and no,” you mutter with a slight laugh, and press the phone closer to your ear, your next words hushed. “Hey, so I was thinking. You keep nagging me about Paris for _years_ but I just realised that you’ve never even told me anything about it. Besides the fact that I apparently never seen _your_ Paris. Whatever that means.”

“You want to make plans for Paris?”

Surprised, soft.

Your eyes close, pained, and you force loftiness into your voice. “Why won’t I?” you pose playfully, swallowing again. “Any places in particular you plan to take me?”

An exhale; and when Santino speaks next, you hear that hint of achingly familiar deviousness back in his voice again. “_Well_, amore. The first place we’ll go to is this cafe called _Le New York_—do _not_ laugh at the name—it is a rather lovely spot overlooking both the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. After enjoying some fine food and above-average wine, we will go—”

You listen to him. Phone pressed tightly against your ear, you let Santino’s low, pleased voice wrap around you like a comforting blanket. Sink into your bones. There is a clear trace of excitement in his voice he’s trying to smother, and he’s as animated and as haughty as you’re used to hearing him be. He paints Paris in a new light, telling you about the many spots you had no idea even existed.

“It sounds nice,” you whisper when he finishes speaking, as if realising that perhaps he has continued on for a while longer than anticipated. “I look forward to it.”

Silence answers, and then a quiet, “One more job, amore,” he reminds you, and you can’t quite place his tone. “Just one more job and then you are _free_. We can go anywhere you want. Anywhere at all. I am no longer an heir. You will no longer be tied to New York. Let me show it to you. Everything there is. Just us.”

The silence between you stretches, and your fingers rise to brush against the silver chain around your neck, tangling it in-between your fingers. It’s the only present from Santino that you have ever accepted. Perhaps because it, unlike dozens of others before it, was not given to you during a fancy dinner or an event. It had been just you two at his home, enjoying the breeze from the Gulf on the rooftop terrace. He had pulled it out of his pocket—no box, no extravagant delivery—and placed it in your hand, closing your fingers around it. A simple, silver chain which—while uniquely made—did not stand out in any way. He never said where it came from or why he chose to give it to you, but you knew from the moment he passed it to you that it was important to him.

You put it around your neck that evening, and it has never come off in the year since you’ve had it.

Maybe because it had felt more like _him_ and not an attempt to show off or impress you.

“Okay. We can see it all when you get back. Promise.”

_I wish we had more time. I wish we could see Paris. I wish I could help you take the power I know you want. I wish_—

Silence.

A quiet breath and you can read the conflict there.

“I’ll be back in New York by 1am tonight,” he informs you and you can hear a note of urgency, of yearning, in his low accented voice. “Come to the penthouse, cara mia. I have missed you.”

Your expression crumbles, and you rub your forehead with the heel of your palm to clear your mind. Breathing deeply, you stare at the carpet beneath your feet.

He _is_ important. After all these years, he is.

That’s why you part your lips and _lie_.

“I’ll be there.” 

A gentle exhale greets you—perhaps of relief, after all, how many times have you rejected these offers in the past—and it only makes you feel sadder.

“Ah, then I suppose I should order some wine.”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

A chuckle, warm and mischievous. “Why, cara, I would _never_. As if I require alcohol to charm you.”

“You are _such_ a cocky bastard,” you mutter with a subdued groan. ”I _have_ told you, right?”

Santino laughs this time. You try to memorise, immortalise, the sound in your mind. “Often, cara mia. Daily, I believe.”

Hesitating, you filter through everything and anything you could say to him. What words you could give to him that he would remember you by.

“I’ll see you around, Santi,” you whisper gently. “Don’t do anything stupid without me, got it?”

“Oh, I imagine it will be quite the arduous task but I shall endeavour to try, amore,” he tells you, and it hits you even harder right then that you will _miss_ him. More than you ever would have expected. “For you. I will see you soon, yes?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, breathless and soft and devastated. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

The call ends and you lower the phone slowly, your other hand still tangled in the silver chain and you press it lightly against your lips.

A goodbye. The best you could offer him given the circumstances.

Rising to your feet, you try to force back the dull ache in your chest and inhale deeply.

Before you can take another step, your phone starts buzzing between your fingers. Your brows furrowing, you look at the name displayed on the screen and feel your expression slacken.

_Marcus_

Accepting the call, you speak before he can, “Before you remind me that I’m an idiot,” you bite out, trying to keep your voice cool. “I would like to remind _you_ that you agreed to help me. So we’re both idiots. I always knew the risks. And maybe now you can finally stop insisting that I still owe John.”

“_(Name)_,” a familiar, deep voice rolls your name and you feel your heart jump to your throat. “So good to hear from you again.”

“_Tarasov_.”

The man clicks his tongue, displeased. “I am…saddened, I must admit. When the news came to me, I insisted that they were wrong. _No_, I said, my little viper is loyal. She looks at me with rage but she is _loyal_. And yet, here we are.”

Your hand trembles and you tighten your grip on the phone, suddenly worried you’re going to drop it. “Where is Marcus?”

Tarasov exhales and he sounds almost upset which just makes you more worried. “You know how I do business, (Name). Traitors only meet one fate. But I am so _disappointed_. After everything I have done for you. I _made_ you. You are who you are today because of _me_.”

His voice is practically a yell by the end, bristling with that infamous rage you know him for. The Ruthless Russian. 

Marcus. No, _no_. It was supposed to be you. That’s why you stayed on-site, that’s why you told Tarasov to his face you will finish this. All so that he would never suspect Marcus was involved. So that he would assume that the man in question simply wasn’t quick enough in completing the hit as agreed. That John getting away was your doing and yours _alone_.

A strangled breath rattles from your lungs, and years of pent-up rage bubbles from deep within you. “You didn’t make me,” you snarl, low and furious, as you stand in the middle of your too empty room. “_I_ made me. And unlike your son, I will live to see another sunrise.”

Tarasov laughs but it’s a terrible sound that sinks into you like a sharpened blade. “Yes, yes, my son…is _gone_. My blood. Now, I shall demand payment in blood from John,” he speaks, his words icy and hoarse with victory. “Just like your parents, you will die like a _dog_.”

Something hits you from behind.

The phone sails from your hand and you fall to the floor, rolling, as your knees knock against the coffee table. Dizzy, you fumble for a blade, throwing it blindly to give yourself room, and know it has missed the target by the sound of footsteps hurrying towards you.

Gripping the side of the coffee table, you jerk it with your entire upper body strength and it hits the assailant in the legs, giving you just enough time to stagger back onto your feet.

Perkins launches herself at you with her teeth bared.

You crash to the ground heavily, and she punches you in the jaw, wrapping her hands around your neck. The contact rattles your teeth and she leers down at you. “Surprised to see me?”

Snarling, you jerk your hips upwards, throwing her gravitational point off as you shove her to the side. She holds onto you, dragging your weight with her, and her fingers sink into the sensitive skin of your neck as you strike her in the ribs. Once, twice.

Her fingers scratch against your skin, drawing blood and you abandon your original plan in favour of striking her straight in the throat. She jerks upon contact, gasping, and her fingers finally release your neck. Immediately, she swipes her arms viciously over the side of your face, focusing on the temple to no doubt knock you out, and you fall to the side, groaning. You blink the dancing, vivid spots from your eyes and crawl to your knees, dizzy. Your work table is just across the room. On it, a thousand and five ways to kill Perkins in some of the most painful ways you can think of.

Clearly, she’s aware of this too.

She falls on top of you, her arms wrapping around your neck from behind, her bodyweight holding you in place.

“Breaking into someone’s room,” you wheeze, struggling to throw her off. Not for the first time, you wish you had Ares’ core strength, but speed has always been your greatest ally. “Classy t-till the end, Perkins.”

“The end?” she titters into your ear, scornful, as her arms tighten around you. “Maybe yours. You know, I told Viggo I would do this free of charge. That I will _enjoy_ it. Not so deadly without your poison, are you? Time to die now.”

You press your forehead against the carpet, inhaling as deeply as you can through her grip. “M-Maybe,” you choke out, your words weak and muffled. “But not by _your_ hand.”

The back of your head smashes into her face and her grip on you loosens. The back of your head explodes with burning pain, and you don’t know if the skin split but you don’t have the time to wonder about it. Using Perkins’ momentarily vulnerability, you jerk upwards, throwing her over your body as she collapses heavily in front of you. Misbalanced, you collapse to one side too, hissing from pain, and hurriedly try to locate her. She’s just slightly ahead of you, on her elbows, trying to get back to her feet and you kick at her ankle. She pivots to the side sharply and you pounce. 

Your fingers tangle in her hair from behind and you drive your fist into her neck. Her elbow strikes back, getting you in the stomach, and air whooshes out of you upon impact. She does it again and you raise your leg, driving your knee into her lower back with all the strength still left in you.

Perkins collapses forward, halfway out of the ajar door and you move after her, your knees quivering. Your eyes snag on an object to the side and you hastily stumble towards it. Your blade sits buried deep in the carpet, and not having more on you inside your hotel room has been an ugly oversight on your part.

Clearly, if Perkins is fine with attacking John in his room, on Continental grounds, she would have no trouble attacking you as well. You, even more so than others. It makes you realise that there is only one thing that could have happened to Harry if she’s here to attack you. That _she_ is likely how Tarasov found out about Marcus. Because she would have followed either you or John, or both.

Your knees creaking, you lower your body to grab the blade, ripping it free from the floor, and turn to Perkins.

The dark-haired woman is on her back, moving backwards to create distance between you as quickly as she can. She reaches inside her jacket and you feel your laboured breaths stop when you realise that there is a gun in her hand.

A gun.

This entire time she had a _gun_.

But she thought that she could—and _would_—kill you with her bare hands.

That it would be _enough_. That you were weak enough, and she deserving of taking your life.

Deserving of _humiliating_ you.

You see red.

The blade in your hand slices through the air like a bullet and you know it hits on target even before Perkins lets out a strangled gasp of agony.

Her gun falls to the carpeted floor, and you stalk towards her, your expression making her crawl backward as she cradles her hand. Your blade has gone clean through her palm, sticking out the other end and blood flows across her pale, smooth skin.

You cut the distance between you and she seems to come out of her shock, trying to desperately reach for her fallen gun with her other hand.

Falling on top of her, you punch her in the face. And _again_. Your knuckles ache and you can already feel the bruised skin starting to swell. You straddle her, not letting her get away as you glare down at her bruised face. Baring your teeth, you grab the blade still stuck inside her hand and _yank_.

Perkins chokes on a pained groan, blinking rapidly as she tries to wiggle from beneath your unyielding grip. Turning the blade slowly in your hand, you meet her stare, raising your hand over your head.

“_(Name)!_”

You freeze. A breath rattles out of you and your lips press shut tightly.

“Don’t get involved, Winston,” you state, breathless and dangerously gentle, your words thick with fury. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Perkins makes a small noise of pain and your fingers wrap around her throat, your other hand still raised and ready to strike—ready to end her.

“Stop and _think_,” Winston’s voice cuts in from ahead of you, his words firm and laced with seriousness you rarely hear. “You know where you are, and you know what the consequences for doing this will be. (_Name_), _look at me_.” 

You hesitate.

The urgency in his voice makes you glance up at him. The older man stands with one hand raised in a pacifying manner and Charon lingers just behind him, morose and serious, too.

“Trust me,” Winston urges again, but seems a bit calmer now that he has your attention. “Lower the blade.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then your eyes slide back down towards Perkins.

She’s _grinning_ because she knows what this means. That she gets to live.

You bring the blade down with one merciless stroke.

For a moment, you simply stare blankly at the sight before you before awkwardly rising to your feet, swaying a little. Your eyes lift to Winston and his expression is slack with disbelief. He sighs and levels you with a flat stare, his features drawn.

As if remembering she needs oxygen, Perkins sucks in a startled breath. Her head turns slightly and she winces at the cut against her throat, the blade sticking into the carpet millimeters from her throat.

Winston looks at you knowingly when you come to a stop before him. “They haven’t been informed _yet_,” he states, and noting your disbelieving expression, gives you a pointed look. “You still have time.”

“_Where_?”

“The docks,” he divulges dispassionately. “If you hurry you might still make it.”

You nod, stiff, and glance briefly over your shoulder.

“Do not worry,” he intones with chilling calmness in his voice. “Ms. Perkins is now in the company’s care.”

Your eyes meet for a second and you nod, moving past him without another word.

That’s all you need to know. 

You will never see her again—not alive, anyway—and that’s just fine by you.

* * *

It’s started raining.

The downpour began about halfway through your journey and by the time you get to the docks, the deluge is so heavy that you can barely see in front of you. Above-head thunder roars, bright flashes of lightning splitting the sky open, and you wince at the harsh beat of water against your skin. It’s freezing, soaking your clothes in a matter of seconds as you stumble blindly ahead.

The helicopter.

Of course, Tarasov would get out of the city first before sicking the High Table onto you, and possibly John too. He would remove himself from the situation because no matter how powerful he might be, going up against one of you would already be impossible enough, much less _two_.

You always figured that he would not waste time and inform the High Table of your betrayal first. To put you down quickly and not give you time to plan ahead or get away.

That has been true to an extent, you realise, except Tarasov sent Perkins because he wanted to catch you off guard and most importantly humiliate you.

Bodies.

You pause in your step, recognising Tarasov’s guards if only by their faces. The smashed cars tell an interesting tale of a futile struggle, and you change direction, following the path of death. Tightening your grip on your pistol, you move as quickly as you can, blinking the water from your eyes as you stagger ahead.

And stop abruptly.

Avi.

Dead too.

You know of only one man capable of such a level of effortless carnage. Your head lifts, scanning the area for any sign of Tarasov or John, and in the distance a faint sound of a struggle reaches you. The downpour muffles the sound greatly, but you still hurry in the general direction, your muscles tensing with every step closer.

But the time you find them, the two men who have haunted your life for years lay on opposite sides of the platform, facing each other.

They both turn towards you.

John, bloodied and shivering, stares at you, his expression soft. Accepting.

Tarasov sees you and chuckles.

It’s a weak sound but he still manages to sound magnanimous.

“_Little viper_,” he drawls in Russian over the sound of pouring rain and you approach them few, intent steps at the time. “My vicious, brilliant viper. Kill him, (Name). Kill him and all will be forgiven. Your debt? Repaid in full. In fact, I will give you the original contract. I will double it. _Triple_ it if you want. 8 million for John Wick’s _head_. For you to start a new life. He _broke_ you. He _left_ you. You are nothing to him. He chose his revenge over you.”

Tarasov is out of breath by the time he’s done and for a long, unperturbed moment you simply stare at him.

Then you raise your gun in John’s direction.

His expression slackens, rain running down his features and he looks devastated but doesn’t try to fight back. He doesn’t say anything either. You don’t know if it’s because, perhaps, he had a feeling that this is how it will end for him—that he’s accepted it. His hand presses against his stomach where you see him bleeding heavily. It pours like a dark river over his fingers and that degree of blood loss will kill him quickly if he doesn’t do something about it.

Perhaps, it would be kinder just to leave him out here. Let him bleed out and join his wife.

“He’s right,” you breathe, your words almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder. “You left me even though I loved you.”

“I’m sorry, (Name).”

You smile at him. “No, you’re not, John. Because you got the life you always wanted.”

Tarasov laughs under his breath. “Seems like I get the last laugh, after all, John.”

You straighten, turning slowly, and line the barrel of your gun with Tarasov’s head, your expression cold.

“But,” you whisper harshly, and revel in the flash of raw fear you see reflecting in his blue eyes. Finally, after all these years, he _fears_ you. You swore to yourself that one day he will, and now it has finally come. “You took _everything_ from me, including my freedom.”

Tarasov’s hand lifts little by little, cautious, as he looks into your eyes. From where you stand he looks _small_ and _weak_. Not at all like the nightmare of a man you always knew him to be. “(Name),” he begins, his voice catching slightly. “Do not be so hasty. I know you are upset but the High Table will kill you—”

“I don’t _care_,” you insist softly, and it swells inside you; all those years of abuse, of neglect, of _him_, robbing you of _everything_. Of all the times he purposely kept you away from the few people who still brought you any semblance of happiness after John left. When he forced you to kill for him regardless of who the person was or what they’ve done. Because of him, you can no longer take baths. Because of him, you cannot stomach the thought of being underground for longer than mere minutes. Because of him, you shrink away from physical contact out of gut-deep terror of being hurt again. Because of _him_ your hands and nightmares are soaked and gushing with blood. Innocent and guilty alike. Because of _him_ you no longer have parents or a future. “What is that you said? _You will die like a dog_?”

“(_Name_)—”

** _BANG_ **

Tarasov jerks to the side, collapsing to the floor as blood pours from his forehead, and for a long moment, you don’t move a muscle, simply staring at his motionless body. You wait for him to get back up, wait for him to wake up, and let yourself accept that this is all a dream but it doesn’t come. The sky roars; a triumphant symphony of raw energy and nature’s fury, matching your laboured breaths and thundering heart.

Your arm, trembling and bruised, suddenly gives out like someone cut the invisible string holding it up.

Cold rain trickles down your neck and lips, fills your eyes until they sting. You wonder if perhaps it's tears, but there is nothing inside your chest—certainly no emotion of grief or even happiness.

Tarasov is _dead_.

After his terrible shadow has loomed over you for close to a decade, you are finally free of him. He’s dead by _your_ hand. The revenge that you have dreamt of for so long is _complete_.

He died alone and afraid just like you always imagined he would. The vengeance you have chased for so long is in your hands at long last.

You wait for the relief, for the _triumph_, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

Your head lowers and then you turn away from the body, forcing your legs to obey you.

“(Name).”

You don’t look in his direction.

It would be easier to walk away.

His dark eyes find yours, and you can see the blood loss starting to take its toll. He should have left long ago to seek assistance.

His hands are red with blood. It’s not a new sight to you but it is the first time you’ve seen so much of _his_ blood.

_Blood_.

There’s been so much of it spilled over the last 24 hours.

Iosef, Viggo, Harry, Marcus, Perkins soon, if not already.

Forcing the gun away from sight, you grab John by the shoulder, shaking him. “Get up.”

His hand rests on top of yours, almost desperate, and he breathes shakily. “Stay with me.”

Your expression twists and you shake him again, harder. “I said _get up_.”

John’s attention focus on you. He hesitates, his gaze searching, before dipping his head once and struggling to his feet. You let him lean into you, your body sagging under his additional weight but one step at the time, you begin walking.

“I’m not gonna make it,” he states, his voice gruff with acceptance and your teeth grit.

You know the odds are terrible at _best_.

You don’t answer him but mentally run through all the possible places where he could receive immediate care. First, blood loss. That’s going to kill him first before anything else.

The Continental? It’s on the other side of the city, you will never make it in time.

Doc’s clinic? Too far just like the Continental.

The nearest hospital is a solid ten-minute drive away and with New York traffic and this storm, you doubt there will be enough time to spare.

Desperation forces you to move quicker and John groans slightly under his breath but follows you willingly, trusting you to lead him—not like he has much of a choice in the matter. The pavement is slick with rain which slows you both down but you keep going.

“Keep pressure on the wound,” you order harshly, and although John doesn’t answer, you do notice that he presses his hand harder against his abdomen. “Get in.”

You force him towards the car and he moves his body inside, heavy and clumsy. It’s disturbing to see him as such but you don’t comment, hurriedly slamming the door behind him.

You move on automatic, wiping your trembling hand across your face to clear the water still clinging to your lashes and watch your swollen, bruised fingers wrap around the steering wheel.

You have to at least try and reach the nearest hospital.

Driving blindly, you know you’re being more dangerous than orderly, but you don’t exactly have the time to obey the speed limit. From the corner of your eye, you notice John reach inside his jacket but don’t bother asking what’s so important.

“_What are you doing, John?_” 

“_Looking at you._”

Blinking, you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. He’s—

He thinks that he will not make it.

So he’s spending his last moments listening and remembering Helen instead. The video plays on and it gets harder and harder to listen to it. Harder to hear their gentle exchange of words. John sounds so loving, so adoring when he speaks with her.

It reminds you of Santino— 

You jerk your head to the side, trying to clear your mind, and that’s when you catch a glimpse of a sign on the building you’re passing. Turning the wheel dangerously to the right, you swerve the car into the back alley slamming on the breaks.

John jerks in his seat, almost collapsing against the dashboard but you steady him with your arm and he winces.

“Sorry,” you mumble hurriedly, pushing him back more gently. “But I have an idea.”

Throwing the car door open, you step outside, shivering from the cold that immediately bites into you. The rain has let up and your soaked clothes cling uncomfortably to your skin as you round the car, throwing the passenger door open.

“Come on,” you urge, leaning to inside to help him get out. He clings to the phone in his hand, his blood smeared across the screen and you carefully push it back into his jacket pocket. “We have to stop the bleeding. _Come on_, John. She won’t want you to die _here_.”

His eyes lift to you, full of simmering pain, and you give him a stern, almost harsh glare in return.

He blinks.

And just like that, John is gone and only Baba Yaga remains.

He rises and you help him.

Breaking into an animal shelter is easier than it looks.

* * *

You never thought you’d be here again.

Here in this house, here helping John.

Scrubbing your hands with soap, you watch the pink water swirl down the drain with a numb sort of detachment.

A whine sounds from beside you, and you blink, glancing down. The dog—you should have checked the chart damnit, surely he has an actual name—wiggles his tail when he realises that he has your full attention.

You have no idea why John insisted on taking him with you.

No—that’s not right. You do know.

It’s symbolic in a way. A bittersweet lament and a way for him to have something else again. Something that hopefully, with time, he can grow to love.

Turning the tap off, you dry your hands and your eyes slide towards the bathroom mirror.

A haunted, gaunt stare greets you and you look away, your grip on the sink counter tightening for a brief moment.

Betraying Tarasov had nothing to do with John.

Asking to run away from everything had nothing to do with love, either.

It’s make-believe. A happy, distant dream you have clung to for years despite your best effort to let go. His wife had passed only a week ago. Whatever John might or might not feel, you would never settle for it—never settle for being a ghost, a bargain-basement stand-in for someone else.

He loves her. Maybe in death, he loves her even _more_.

Acceptance took years but you understand it now.

You didn’t save John for _him_. You saved him only because you hated Tarasov _more_. Forgiveness does not come easy, not after what you’ve been forced to go through. It’s its own form of punishment, you figure, helping him live another day. Making him live on now that he has nothing and his vengeance is complete. 

You straighten but find breathing…difficult.

You keep hearing the deafening sound of rain in your ears, the sound of the gunshot ripping through the air when you pulled the trigger. You keep hearing, and feeling, and tasting the moment in which you saw Tarasov collapse to the ground.

He’s _dead_.

You’re _free_.

“I’m free,” you mumble under your breath.

And again. And _again_.

But you don’t _feel_ free.

You don’t feel much of anything and it terrifies you.

You’ve been doing so well. So damn _well_.

Since Chicago, it’s been a steady, slow rise to where you are today. _Been_.

You can feel that hard-fought ease and stability chip and crumble away with every haggard breath. Fear curdles your stomach—fear of the future, of the High Table, of what will happen now—and your palm slams against the marble counter, making you wince immediately. Your hands are heavily bruised but you ignore the dull twinge in favour of taking deep, steadying breaths.

“_Count with me_,” a memory urges, gentle but firm; insistent. “_Uno, due, tre…_”

The dog whines again, nudging his nose against your shin as if sensing your distress, and you squeeze your eyes closed before opening them again.

Bending down, you pat him on the head, rubbing his ear. “Good dog,” you tell him, hushed, and give him another few pets that he seems to lap up, wagging his tail happily.

You stand to your full height, and leave the bathroom, entering John’s bedroom. 

He lays under the covers, his breaths shallow but steady. Sweat clings to his skin but when you take his wrist to check his pulse his vitals hold steady. Painkillers, liquids, and rest—that’s what he needs right now. Time to heal. It’s a damn miracle you managed to stop the bleeding when you did. You have no idea what you would have done if he had needed a transfusion.

The animal shelter appeared in your path like an oasis, a miracle. Perhaps, if the afterlife is real after all, Helen is watching out for her husband from somewhere out there. A guardian angel.

The dog jumps on the bed, curling against his new owner’s feet and you stare at John’s peaceful face for a few minutes.

_Have_ you forgiven him?

No. No, you have not.

But you saved him because you had to prove to yourself that there’s more to you than what others say—more than what Kishi’s ghost keeps insisting you are. _Dead_ to the world. John’s life would have just been another life needlessly lost and perhaps…

_Perhaps_ you are no longer kind enough to let him have his peace.

As if sensing your scrutiny—or perhaps just your touch when you checked him—his eyes crack open. He looks bleary-eyed and disorientated and you place a glass of water against his lips. He takes a gulp but you force him to take more. He needs it.

You turn to place the glass back on the counter but John’s shaking fingers come to rest lightly around your wrist.

“I owe you a debt—”

“Stop,” you insist quietly, and take his hand in yours, lowering it back on top of the covers. “Just rest.”

He squints and you know he’s finding it hard to stay alert, focused. “A life debt—”

“John,” you cut him off, your voice hard. “It doesn’t _matter_ anymore.”

Your voice cracks and his expression looks sad.

Your love ended a long time ago, didn’t it? He shouldn’t look this sad about the thought of you dying. At least unlike before, you will be going without regrets.

“I will not let…” his voice fades a little, heavy with exhaustion and you look away from him. “I will repay this debt.”

You don’t have any words for him. Every moment with John is like reaching into the dark and always coming away empty. It didn’t even hurt as much as it should have when he rejected your earlier offer to get the hell out of New York together.

A part of you expected it.

And maybe he still cares for you—maybe even loves you—but his love has never come in a form that you can understand. Never came in a form that doesn’t make you feel more alone.

He left you. It broke something inside you, but you rebuilt. Piece by piece.

Does it make you weak, you wonder distantly, the fact that despite everything he still clings to you. That you still can’t shake him fully. Has he really sunk in so deep that you can’t get him out no matter how much time passes?

“Don’t go.”

It’s such a simple request but you feel something inside you clamp up at his words.

As if it’s _that_ simple. As if _his_ pain is the only pain that matters. As if you haven’t just—

As if there isn’t just one way this can all end now.

As if he wasn’t the first one to leave.

You’re so lost in your own mind, you don’t even notice his eyes flutter shut again, and can’t help but feel grateful when you notice they have.

What good is a life debt when you have no future to begin with?

The High Table is no doubt already launching an investigation into what happened with Tarasov.

They will come for you. Sooner or later.

_“But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?”_

You shiver as Tarasov’s ghost whispers those familiar words in your ear, making your fingers tremble.

“_Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re dead to the world._”

Dead.

Dead.

_Dead_.

You stumble from the seat blindly, gasping for breath while pressing your palm against your chest as if you could still your galloping heart by touch alone.

Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, a rapid numbness spreading through your limbs, and you feel like crying but can’t force any emotion forward.

The phantom feeling of blood coating you clings to your hands and you tremble, tangling your fingers together as you stumble towards the bathroom.

You just want to be free. Free of your past, free of the pain and the uncertainty—

Just _free_.

Your stomach cramps painfully but nothing happens. You dry heave a few times, your skin clammy but freezing too.

A cold, wet nose suddenly nudges your cheek and you jerk up. Glancing over your folded arms, you can’t help but chuckle weakly.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” you croak hoarsely and your shaking hand settles on his head. “Protect him, will you? Keep him safe.”

Because you can’t stay here.

This house is just another prison. Another searing knife burying deep between your ribs. You don’t want to stand here and pretend that you’re fine when you’re _not_. Because this space is smothering you one minute at a time.

Because it represents everything you _could_ have had.

If things had gone just a little bit different.

Clumsily, you check your watch and swallow. What are the chances that the High Table already knows? What are the chances of you making it to the city without someone coming for your head?

All you have on you is two vials of paralyser and your pistol with a clip that’s now missing a single bullet.

Ignoring the splitting headache that’s starting to drum against your temples, you stagger to your feet, dizzy and nauseous.

John is still asleep but looks better than he did before. Some colour is finally starting to come back to his face and his breaths have evened out.

“Keep him safe,” you repeat in a whisper and give the dog another pat on the head. He wags his tail in reply, licking your palm as if in agreement and you crack a smile. 

Your eyes settle on one of many pictures of John and Helen—this one of them with their arms wrapped around each other and caught mid-laugh—and it’s just another stinging reminder that you don’t belong here. Or anywhere.

_You’re dead to the world._

Your eyes sting unexpectedly and you blink rapidly, trying to clear your blurry sight.

You turn away from the picture and don’t look back when you walk out of the door.

* * *

Flavio greets you with a guarded glare.

He’s lucky to be alive. He was the only guard to survive the warehouse attack from those that got injured. The attackers wanted the element of surprise so simply shot him and left him to bleed out.

Appears like he’s still holding a grudge about his little scratch though. Oh _well_.

Roberto, who is busy explaining something to him, turns when he notices Flavio’s attention focus on you. His expression relaxes when he realises that it’s you, but then you watch how his face goes slack with shock as he takes you in properly.

“V? What _happened_?” he demands and walks hurriedly towards you, looking around as if expecting someone to magically appear in the lobby and attack you. “Who did—”

“Santino…is he back?”

Roberto’s expression creases and even beneath the strong beard you can see his lips press together tightly. He looks _worried_. Numbly, you wonder just how bad you must look to move a serious man like Roberto to fret. Your hands wrecked, and the scratches on your neck no doubt angry and raw, you must hardly make a pretty picture. Clothes soggy and appearance more dishevelled than he’s used to seeing. The look in your eyes is no doubt distant and glazed too.

“Boss is back,” he states slowly, hesitant. “He’s been waiting for you. But he’s not in the best mood today. Who _hurt_ you? V, if Boss sees you like this he will—”

“I need to see him,” you breathe weakly, and move around Roberto, your knees weak. As if sensing it, he moves to your side but wisely doesn’t touch you, simply hovering near in case you need to reach out for support. You can’t remember ever being more grateful for his position as one of Santino’s regular guards. “I _need_—”

You _promised_.

Seems like you get to keep your promise of seeing him again after all. 

And…

And you didn’t know who else you could go to.

If it comes down to this being your last few hours left alive—

You at least want to spend them with your friend.

Your hand snaps out, gripping onto Roberto’s elbow and you hear the man release a startled breath. Ignoring his anxious stare, you both walk past Flavio who has now lost his glare, looking at you in confusion. The elevator ride is quick and silent, tense. Roberto is practically fidgeting in his crisp suit and you feel a stab of guilt for involving him without giving him any answers.

The penthouse button lights up and the elevator halts, the metal door opening silently to a familiar hallway.

You give Roberto’s arm a squeeze and release your grip on him.

“Go back downstairs.”

He frowns. “Boss will have my head if—”

“I will handle it. _Go_.”

You step outside and hear the elevator door close with a small creak.

Your eyes focus on the white door ahead but you don’t get a chance to knock. The door opens on its own accord, and it’s then that you realise Flavio must have informed Santino you have arrived. 

His expression is serious when you first catch the first glimpse of it.

Then it’s a rapid spiral downwards.

It’s late—or early—and it explains the fact that he’s only clad in a white dress shirt and tie, oppose to his signature three-piece. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his Rolex gleaming, and you see his grip on the door constricts suddenly, the lean muscle coiling under his sun-kissed skin.

His eyes roam over your features dangerously slow, then your neck—_lingering, lingering, lingering_—and finally your hands.

Then, his green eyes slowly come back to your face and it’s like being burned by a green flame so hot it almost hitches your breath. His grip on the door tightens till you can see his knuckles straining under his skin.

“_(Name)_.”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a warning, a demand, a worry, and rage all wrapped in one quiet exhale of your name.

Your voice is choked and weak when you confess the truth.

“I k-killed Tarasov. They’re coming for me, Santino, and they’re going to kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEH.


	8. the only permanent tenderness;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been a _mess_. The biggest, warmest, most love-filled **THANK YOU** to everyone who has left comments (especially those of you who comment on every chapter, I see you <33), kudos or bookmarked this story. I'm so sorry about being crappy about responses. I promise I'll try to be better in the future uGH. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed your holidays!!! <33

Your shaky fingers wrap around the crystal glass, going for the bottle in front of you. There is no telling what it even is. Brandy? Bourbon? Whiskey?

It doesn’t matter at this point. Your skin is frigid but your insides burn.

You had pushed right past Santino who was clearly caught off guard by your blunt, choked words, going straight for the drinks table. Despite the chill deep in your bones, you find that the penthouse is as open and as welcoming as always.

The glass in your hand shakes so badly you fear for a moment that you’re going to drop it. But it’s not like he doesn’t have another dozen to replace this one with and _yet_—

His larger hand suddenly wraps around your wrist from behind, stilling you, and you flinch at the searing heat of his skin. Your wrist looks pathetically fragile in his grip. You’ve never considered your hands as weak before, not even before Tokyo. But now you do. Your fingers fold tighter around the glass and you suck in a sharp breath.

“You don’t like hard liquor, amore,” he states, his words carefully neutral. But his voice is wrapped, heavy.

You tug your wrist free and chuckle. It sounds a touch manic and your forced smile wobbles. “Well, why not,” you whisper wetly, turning the glass from side to side before finally placing it back on the table with a jarring clatter. “Might find it—”

“What _happened_, cara mia?”

Your eyes lift to his. You laugh this time; it sounds miserable and strangled and you step away from him, ashamed. It’s so good to see him again but you can’t stand the look in his eyes. It’s eerily similar to the look he often wore before and during Chicago. That calm rage is when Santino is at his worst. At his most dangerous.

“I _killed_ him,” you force out, your voice frayed as you wander further into the room. The fireplace is lit—warm and inviting as always—but you feel numb to its soothing embrace. “I killed him, Santi. Shot him right in the head. And I felt nothing—I—I feel _nothing_. And now they will come and—the debt is unpaid, they will kill me…or…or…”

You hear him step closer to you but can’t find it in yourself to look at him. Instead, you focus on your hands. The grooves and the ridges, the lines and the dips. You see blood on them even though there is none.

There is so much blood on your hands that you can wash it away but it still clings to you.

“No one is going to kill you,” Santino tells you, quiet and calm, but his words are laced with an icy sort of finality. Like that fact is an absolute and he will not consider anything else. “And no one is going to harm you either, cara mia.”

Your head shakes at his words and you hate how powerless you suddenly feel.

“There are rules, Santino, the High Table—”

He cuts the remaining distance between you in two brisk steps, his hands coming to grip your forearms firmly as he pulls you closer. Your eyes jump to him and you see his calm demeanour beginning to crack too. His stare is hard, unforgiving.

“_Fuck_ the rules,” he hisses, his words sharp with fury. “And _fuck_ the High Table.”

His grip on you tightens when he notices your attention dropping from him, still lost in your head. In the terror of your own vulnerability.

“Look at me,” he insists, strained, but when you don’t, his hands release you and he cups your face instead, pulling you even closer till the only thing you _can_ look at _is_ him. The heat of his hands against your skin burns into you and you stare at him, suspended and startled. “_Look at me_. I swore to you that night, no? I swore that I will never allow anyone to ever harm you again. I _swore_, (Name), and I do not do so lightly.”

The severity of his expression eases somewhat when he notes the way you tremble before him. His thumb brushes delicately against your cheek, lingering, while his eyes flicker over your expression slowly. Devouring as always. You see his anger buried deep, simmering just beneath the calm he tries to force into his face but fails. His jaw keeps clenching, and you can see something close to worry in that restless tick.

“If anyone tries to take you from me,” he whispers, low and resolute, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine as his eyes search yours. “I will _burn_ this city to the ground, do you understand? I will never let them touch you. Hm_, _yes? Come here.”

You practically collapse against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. Dry sobs leave you but tears don’t come. Santino is warm and unmoving as always, and you bury yourself in the safety of his arms, gasping and afraid. You feel one of his hands come to rest on your head, smoothing his fingers over your hair while his other wraps around your shoulders.

“Shh, amore. Nothing and no one will hurt you here,” he hums, his voice thick with wrath he no doubt wants to unleash, and his grip only tightens when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. Desperately so. “You are under my protection. Oh, amore mio. _No one_. My word to you. Word of the old Camorra.”

Word of the old Camorra.

Their own internal version of a binding Marker. Only to be given out by the head or lady of Camorra and the heirs. Rare and powerful as jewels.

You shudder in his embrace, not saying a word.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, wrapped up in his arms like it can shield you from everything.

But for the first time in your life, you allow the sensation of being someone else's priority to soothe your restless mind.

* * *

It takes you an hour to get out of the shower.

The process is…difficult.

After Tokyo, simple things like showering became hard, and baths are still unbearable to this day. You can’t submerge yourself into the warm depths without the horrifying sensation of being forced underwater clawing up from your past.

You hate the feeling of losing control, the feeling of teetering too close to the edge again. Despite your less than savoury mental state, Santino insisted that you need to warm up, and you both hate and adore the amount of faith he has in your inner strength.

You’ve been forced to stay at the penthouse a few times in the past. Mostly due to injuries, and Santino has more than prepped his home for the possibility of you staying again. It used to make you feel terrible because it always seemed like he was waiting for you to reach out and come home to him. Now, it just makes you feel grateful that you have some form of shelter away from the world. That he keeps his door open to you despite the dozens upon dozens of times you have rejected and pushed him away in the past.

For a man who is _so_ proud and _so_ easy to sway towards resentment, he is unfailingly patient with you.

“_Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they _**_find it_**_—_”

Gianna’s words crawl up from the deepest recesses of your mind and you swallow, your throat dry. You have chosen to wipe them from your mind in the past. Back then you rebelled against the very notion. It was easier to convince yourself that something between you and Santino hasn’t fundamentally changed since Chicago—that it’s still simple lust and playful teasing between you with his intentions clear and easy to see through.

Standing in the doorway to the lounge, you watch his profile for a moment, and think that _nothing_ is easy between you anymore.

His hair is a mess. You wonder if he has been running his fingers through it again while he waited, and the usually combed and neat curls rest in a disarray. The round curve of his chin and jaw are familiar to you too. He sits on the sofa like a king; legs folded, spread out, and arms extended elegantly, a drink in one hand while he absentmindedly turns his Camorra ring. Even relaxed he doesn’t lose that edge of arrogance that is so integral to him as a man.

When have you stopped resenting that? Did you _ever_?

Santino and John couldn’t be more different and yet it makes you wonder how, exactly, you are able to find common ground with both.

_You are under my protection._

You can’t help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. How easily he has sworn himself as a Camorra’s heir to your protection. But it makes you wary as well. Santino is vicious and he is volatile. You believed him when he said that he would make New York bleed for you and it worries you. He’s been so focused lately. Steady. He took Gianna inheriting the seat well, perhaps _too well_. Then the attack on you both. Now, _this_. Something will give and soon.

Santino has only one true love.

Power.

Is there anything he _won’t _give up for it?

You can’t help but wonder if that’s why—even after all these years—you still hesitate.

If John left you for love, what is to stop a selfish man like Santino from leaving you for power?

How many times can you be left behind before—

His attention remains focused on the flickering flame as you continue observing him from your spot, and you can’t help but wonder what put him in such deep thought.

He blinks suddenly, seemingly coming back to the present and his head turns in your direction.

A slight smile greets you. “Ah, feeling better, cara? You took a while.”

You shuffle inside. Tired—no, _exhausted_. It seeps into the very soul of you but you’ve been unable to shake the sense of hyper-vigilance. Every second seems so precious yet slips through your fingers too quickly.

“Shower was…difficult.”

His expression falters at your confession, and then his features smooth with every second that passes. There is no pity in those bright green depths, just an old understanding.

You approach him and try not to cringe under the quiet intensity of his stare as his eyes follow you. From this close up he looks tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and you feel a stab of guilt. What’s the time? 3am? Later?

Exhaling, you sit down beside him, staring at your knees.

The emptiness inside your chest throbs and your fingers twitch in response.

Santino shifts and you glance at his hand beside yours. He turns his fingers around, palm facing upwards, and it rests like that; a silent offering.

Your own features fall, soften, and you don’t think there are any words in any language either of you knows that can express the depth of your gratitude for his offer.

Carefully, you place your fingers in-between his and he gently folds them around yours.

He holds your hand in his like it’s something important—_precious_—to him and your eyes flutter closed. 

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you bask in the comfort of his touch for a while longer. His thumb traces small, tender circles against your skin but when you finally glance at him you find his expression drawn, solemn. Focused on the bruises, on the swollen knuckles.

“Tell me what happened.”

You’re grateful that he doesn’t phrase it like another order he’s so used to giving others.

You swallow twice before finding enough strength to open your mouth and begin speaking.

Then, you tell him _everything_.

From John to Tarasov, and all the things in-between.

It pours out of you like a river, swift and untamed.

Santino doesn’t say a word the entire time you talk.

His silence stretches on even after you’re done, and as long minutes start adding up so does your unease.

He places his drink back on the table, not releasing your hand, and finally, his head turns in your direction. His expression is carefully devoid of anything that may hint at how he feels but the coil of his back muscles is rigid.

Santino simply gazes at you for another minute, his stare burning, and then his eyes settle on your neck. On the scratches that after your long shower must be looking especially tender. “And _these_?”

His voice is sharp enough to cut yet somehow even lower than usual.

“Perkins,” you choke out, tightening your grip on his hand when you see the way his expression comes undone for just a second. In that split, you don’t see a man you know but the Smiling Shark instead. Camorra’s unruly wildcard. Bloodthirsty and dangerous as the first time you met him. “Tarasov sent her. She attacked me in my room. Got some hits in before I finished it.”

You can almost hear his teeth gritting together. He reaches out, his fingers delicate against your throat as he ghosts his fingertips over the deep gnashes. With every second that passes you can see his fury mounting, twisting his expression into something unforgiving.

“_That woman_? After I told her what happens if—”

You place your hand on top of his when he touches the silver chain around your neck, and his eyes jump to you. “Winston took care of it. She broke the Continental rules. We won’t be seeing her again.”

Despite your words, a slight sneer still lingers across Santino’s expression, and he lifts your connected hands to his lips, pressing them lightly against your damaged skin.

The iciness of his stare suggests that the gesture is more for himself than you.

“_That_ makes her, _hm_, rather lucky, then,” he murmurs, barely audible against your skin before lowering your hands. You keep your fingers on his, if only to hold him still. “I would have not shown her similar mercy.”

Exhaling unsteadily, you shake your head a little before tightening your grip on him, and lean your cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very bloodthirsty, have I told you that?” you try to banter but it comes off flat. Santino breathes deeply beside you, barely restrained and your eyes close. His warmth sinks into your cheek through his shirt and you inhale his cologne; something warm and heady, a spice that unlike with most scents you encounter, you don’t try to analyse. “You’re angry at me too.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, amore,” he says. “I _am_.”

“I’m sorry—”

His grip on you constricts before loosening. When he speaks next, it’s an effort to stay calm, you can tell, “I do not need nor want an apology from you,” he informs you flatly. “That phonecall—”

Your head lifts and you know your expression is as devastated as you feel. “I just thought that it would be easier.”

“_Easier_?” he repeats, his lips twitching into a cool, cutting smile. “Tell me, cara mia. Who exactly would it have been easier for? _You_?”

Your head turns away from him, stung. You’re so tired. So _tired_. You don’t want to fight with him too. Not when these might very well be your last moments together. Everyone, always, wants to fight and you just want—

His hand comes to cup the side of your jaw, turning your face back towards him, and you feel the coolness of his Camorra ring caress your skin. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you seriously.

“Do you truly think that if were the _end_—” he cuts himself off, swallows, and you notice his jaw twitch. His expression is grave and his voice a low drawl. “You misunderstand my anger, cara. If it had truly been the end, you would have robbed me of my only chance to say goodbye. You would have been lost to me because of _him_.”

_Oh._

“This has _nothing_ to do with him.”

It surprises you when he releases his hold on you and rises to his feet abruptly. His hands slip into his trousers and he wanders closer towards the fire, leaning his forearm against the mantle as he stares at the flame. He chuckles, harsh and disbelieving, and it sounds almost cruel.

“Ah, but it _is_ him, it’s _always_ him,” he notes so quietly you barely hear him. His lips are twisted into a smile but it lacks joy, lacks the easy charm you know him for. “After everything that he has _done_. After all the _hurt_ he has caused. He still thinks he has _any_ right to drag you back—”

He curses in Italian, coarse and muffled, and you only manage to pick out a few words before he turns away with a shake of his head and a loud sigh. He leans his palms against the mantle and silence reigns between you.

You stare at his back wordlessly but Santino clearly has nothing left to say on the topic—nothing that he knows won’t upset you further, at least. Turning your head to hide your expression, your lips tremble before you nibble on the soft flesh to keep steady.

His silence hurts. 

But what did you expect? 

Santino has always resented John for leaving you for Helen—an outsider, someone unworthy in his eyes—and his reaction shouldn’t surprise you.

You were angry too after all. Angry that John would ask you to place yourself in such danger for _his_ revenge. 

When all is said and done, it’s your life that’s now on the line. John is out. John is _free_. There will be no consequences for him. In the eyes of the High Table, John would have done nothing wrong. But you knew the risk when you took it. Tarasov was not an idiot. He never truly trusted you because the priest was right. Deep down he must have always known that you will try to betray him in the end. The moment you were free of the contract he likely would have killed you himself. Simply for knowing too much, simply so that no one else can employ you to gain power for themselves—namely Santino.

The risk was worth it. 

Anything to get rid of Tarasov once and for all.

Rising to your feet with a feeble swallow, you turn to go.

“(_Name_).”

You stagger to a stop at the sound of your name. You can’t identify the emotion in Santino’s voice but there is an edge to the way he calls for you that tells you he wants you to _stay_.

“I’m tired,” you mumble without turning around. “You should get rest too. Goodnight, Santino.”

* * *

There’s blood on your hands, in your eyes, in your _mouth_—

“Give her another round,” Kishi orders from somewhere in the distance, his voice twisting with a perverted kind of joy at your suffering. “Make her _bleed_ like a pig. Make her _cry_,” he drags the last word out in a sing-song voice and cackles. 

Tarasov’s face appears in front of you, his lips contorted into a malicious, brutal sort of sneer before he wraps his large hand over your face, smothering you.

You writhe desperately, trying to free your hands or legs, or _anything_ but you are bound as always. Helpless and abandoned and you scream in terror, thrashing even more wildly.

But then—suddenly—over Tarasov’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of an achingly familiar face.

He stands half-swallowed in the shadows as he observes what’s happening before him, and you jerk in your seat, trying to reach for him.

John only looks at you though, something close to pity in his eyes. Similar to the way one watches a suffering animal, as if wishing they could be put out of their misery already.

Your ribs crack.

You scream his name, muffled and incoherent, over Tarasov’s heavy fingers over your face. His weight keeps pushing down and you’re choking, choking—

_Please, I love you._

John smiles slightly, a glimmer of a loving dream, and turns away from you—

You wake up _howling_.

Something—_someone_, is shaking you, and you snarl, throwing yourself at them blindly. With their hands still on you, they drag you down with them, and you grapple to wrap your hands around their neck the moment you hit the ground. Your legs lock around them so they won’t be able to throw you off and you breathe harshly, gasping for breath. Your fingers wrap around the curves of a warm neck, and you feel a steady, strong pulse beat beneath your fingertips.

Bright green greets you.

His lips are moving, his fingers gentle around your wrists even when your own tighten around his neck further, your nails sinking into his skin.

You—

You—

You _know_ him.

The roaring in your ears subsides, stripping away the thick taste of copper on your tongue too.

“_Santi_?”

“Are you expecting—_ah_—another man in your room, c-cara mia?”

Your expression crumbles, your grip loosening and you feel disgust rip through you like a bolt of lightning. You’ve _tried_—

“Oh God,” you mumble, and try to force oxygen into your lungs but they only cramp up tighter, making it near impossible to breathe. “He was right—he’s _right,_ there’s nothing left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s right, I’m _dead_ to the world—”

You pull away from him, crawling backwards, and feel sick to your stomach. Santino rises at once, his expression tense as he reaches for you. His hand pauses before he can touch you though, and he hovers it over your shoulder, hesitant.

“Let me,” he requests, urgent but soft, and you only shake your head, curling away from him. “Count with me, amore. _Uno, due, tre…”_

_“Q-Quattro,_” you choke out, and your chest tightens further, causing you to muffle a gasp of pain. Copper stings your tongue, and you realise too late that you’ve bitten your inner cheek, making you flinch again. “I _can’t_. D-Don’t touch—”

His fingertips graze your bare shoulder lightly and you suck in a sharp breath, shivering on the floor, and your eyes fly to his. For a second you’re suspended, hardly breathing before you hiccup, gasping for more oxygen. You feel cold all over and it makes you feel pathetically small. It makes you feel hollow and empty of anything but nightmares from your past that are happy to wrap their arms around you and choke the life right out of you.

It feels like that cramped flat in Moscow. Your parents _dead, dead, dead._

It feels like Tarasov’s office. Your cheek and shoulder _throbbing, throbbing, throbbing._

It feels like that pit in the outskirts of Tokyo. Your soul and body being _crushed, torn apart, and shredded._

There is nothing left.

For how much longer can you keep pretending that there _is_?

“Come with me.”

His hushed voice cuts through the suffocating silence and your pained pants and you look up at him. His fingers rest gingerly on your shoulder and it amazes you that he can still bear to touch you after you just attacked him as you did.

“_I can’t._”

Santino’s expression cracks, darkening, and you think that he looks almost angry.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice and expression equally steely. “You _can_. I know a woman who can do _anything_ she puts her mind to.”

His fingers release you, and for a moment you can’t help but think that he’s going to stand up and walk away. Leave you here alone on the floor.

He doesn’t.

Santino does stand—still dressed in the same clothes as before, even though his shirt is more creased now—but instead of walking away, he holds out his hand to you, stern and expectant.

He’s not going to pull you up and let himself be used as a crutch.

He expects you to stand up on your _own_.

Because he believes that you _can_.

Your throat bobs; once, twice.

It takes you four tries before—fingers sunk deep into the bed covers—you finally manage to stagger to your feet. Your knees shake like you’re a newborn fawn and breathing takes twice as much effort. The sensation of being suffocated won’t drop no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that you’re _fine_.

You sway unsteadily but Santino grabs your hand in his, moving closer, and you stand like this for a while. He’s calm even though his gaze is stormy, and you are shivering and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. You can feel your loose t-shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat clinging to you, and shiver despite the fact that the room is warm. Your heartbeat thuds like a drum against your ribs and your fingers clench firmer around his. 

“There she is,” he notes mildly, his voice silk, and when your eyes flicker up to him you see his chin tilt upwards. It’s an arrogant, haughty tip in his demeanour you have seen a hundred times in the past, but his eyes gleam with quiet sort of pride. “My sea on a stormy night, hm? Come with me.”

He steps closer, carefully twisting his arm to loop around yours and you stay silent, clinging to his arm as he guides you out of the room. It’s a tedious process but he makes no comments about your slowness—the last thing anyone who knows you associates with you—as you cut through his apartment together.

If someone told you almost six years ago when you first met him in that church and pressed a knife to his throat that you will end up like _this_…

You would have laughed in their faces.

Santino D’Antonio.

Over the years he has proven to be exactly what you expected him to be, and yet completely different too.

A stinging, sharp pain grinds into your chest as you walk and you focus on putting one foot in front of another, still clinging to his arm. You’re so focused on the test of strength, you don’t notice Santino leading you up the staircase before he pulls the patio door open, pulling you out into the frigid morning air.

The terrace is a sprawling, massive space and in the distance, you can see the pool reflecting the light. The shadows from the pavilion are well known to you too—there’s been plenty of times in the past when you, Santino, and Ares have enjoyed drinks there while planning your next job.

Even though it’s still dark outside, New York City is never quiet and the symphony of traffic noise washes over you as does the brisk breeze that comes with being this high up.

A quiver rolls across your limbs and you gulp the freezing air regardless of the fact that it makes your throat and lungs ache harder.

“Look up.”

You do.

The vastness of the sky opens up above you. From this height, you feel like you can reach out and touch the horizon. The stars are not as bright here as they are in Naples but it’s still a comforting sight. New York is your city. Perhaps not by choice but by fate.

“You are _not_ in that pit anymore,” Santino speaks from beside you but you simply stare up at the sky. “You are here and you are _free_, amore. That man, Tarasov, they both may have hurt you but where are they now, hm? Dead, cara mia. By _your_ hand. You outlived and outsmarted them both.”

“I feel nothing, Santino,” you whisper weakly, choked. “Tarasov is dead and I feel so fucking _numb_—”

Your voice cracks, and you finally lower your head, the back of your neck aching from craning your head too far back.

“I don’t want my last hours to be spent back in _that_ headspace,” you croak, your voice trembling. “I thought—I thought I overcame it. I’ve been—it’s hard but I’ve been _better_.”

For once, Santino doesn’t offer anything in reply. You feel his focus on you but he remains silent and you’re grateful because he understands your need to voice this. That you need to let this manic terror out somehow.

Tarasov cracked you, Kishi crushed you, but John shattered you completely.

The latter always hurt the most. Because he was the last person you ever expected to damage you the way he did. It hurt the most when you fell by his hand even if he never caused physical harm. It crippled something deep inside you, and no matter how carefully you’ve glued yourself together over the years—and you don’t know if you would have managed if it hadn’t been for the man beside you, Winston, Ares—it still haunts you.

You’re so _tired_ of being haunted all the time.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Santino’s voice slices through the quiet and the whistling wind suddenly. The morning chill is merciless and you press closer to him as you listen. “It makes me want to steal you away.”

“Paris?”

He turns towards you then, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye too. “No, cara. Just home,” he murmurs lightly, and something about the simplicity of his words catches you completely off guard, somehow pains you even more. “Get Gia to cook us some _Ribollita_. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy some white wine after.”

You can almost taste it. Can almost smell the sunshine and the sea salt in the air. Feel the warm breeze instead of the chilly one. Can almost step back in time to last year and those three days where the world outside did not exist. No Tarasov, no debt, no ghosts or chains.

Just sunshine, just laughter.

To a time before now—the now that is so very complicated.

“How is she?” you ask instead, your voice still hoarse, knowing full well that you don’t have a reply to his earlier statement.

Santino hums under his breath, thoughtful, and his eyes sweep over the already lively streets below. From this angle, he looks like a god simply gazing down at his subjects. His edges unpolished, almost wild, but as deadly as always. It’s odd, but it’s here, at this moment, that you look at him and see a Camorra boss for the first time. Not during past jobs, not during negotiations or galas or family meetings—but _here_, now. It startles you so much that you fixate on him for a while longer, lost for words.

“Missing your company,” he divulges at last with a glimmer of a grin, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus on his words. “She enjoyed your stay.”

The wind blows again and you sigh, finally being able to feel the freshness filling your body. The previous frenzied terror has retreated for now and only the weak shell remains.

You search for words, for the memories of that visit, and try to glean happiness from them. 

“I got you drunk on cheap wine,” you state dryly, faltering, but a smile wants to twitch your facial muscles and the sensation brings you some comfort. “Hardly something to enjoy.”

Santino blinks, and again, and then gives you such affronted look you almost laugh.

“You…” he begins, and stops, and then peers at you before frowning with that petulant twitch of his lips. “Did _not_ get me drunk.”

Your own lips twist; something awkward but genuine in its teasing. “You were hungover as a _skunk_ the next day,” you remind him, a touch smug, and delight in the way he narrows his eyes like you’ve called one of his suits ugly. “That family meeting you had to attend the next morning was a _misery_, don’t lie.”

He looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh slightly, your tiny smile stretching wider.

You feel his eyes track the motion intently and his own lips twitch into a smug little smile.

“Ah, _there_ it is,” he notes, satisfied. “Better?”

Your head lowers with a nod, and when you look up at him again you simply gaze at each other for a moment.

You want to believe him—want to let him _in_.

You _want_ to. So badly sometimes.

But where would you even begin?

Everyone you’ve ever loved in your life you have lost.

You can’t—

“I would love to go back to Naples, too, but when the High Table comes—”

“Then I wish them luck, cara mia,” his voice cuts in, and it’s almost as chilly as the wind dancing around you both, and this time your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “They would never take you from my home. I’m Camorra.”

You exhale at his words, slow and sad. “But you’re not the head, Santino,” you state, your voice twisted with dismay. “And I’m not _in_ your family. If they came for me, you would have to obey or your life is forfeited.”

The strong curve of his eyebrows knits together, framing his face with an expression you have never seen before. His eyes roam over your features and you shift silently, not sure what to make of it. 

“No,” he agrees faintly, his words and expression empty. “You are _not_.”

It’s impossible to stomach the look on his face. The subtle traces of disappointment and indignation that you seem so good at pulling out of him. You press the now near numb tip of your nose against his shoulder for a second, eyes closed—a silent, genuine apology before you untangle your linked arms and turn to go. You feel his heavy stare follow you as you wander inside on trembling legs, and distantly hear him follow after you.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk back towards the lounge. The clock on the wall reads _06:12am_ and you sigh, bone-weary and drained. Your panic may have passed but you feel like you weigh a ton emotionally, your limbs limp with exhaustion.

Santino comes to your side, reaching towards the bottle of what you think might be scotch, and your guilt intensifies when the light reveals the red marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Never,” he stops you, lowering the crystal bottle and giving you a sharp look over his shoulder. “You will _never_ have to apologise for that, bella.”

“I’ve seen you kill people for less,” you point out, your words fragile as you fold your arms over your chest. It comes off more defensive than you would have liked, and you realise your mistake when Santino straightens. One of his hands slips inside his trousers and he steps closer. Like a toss of a coin, you feel the tension between you shift, thicken, and can’t help but exhale when he places his hand against the curve of your chin, tilting your head so he can see your expression.

“Yes, and I imagine I will do so again in the future,” he admits unperturbed, and the heat of his palm sinks into your chilled skin pleasantly. “For even less,” he adds after a pause, unashamed.

He leans closer then, and for a split second, you think that he’s going to kiss you. But instead, his lips ghost over your ear. “They are not, however, _you_.”

With that, he pulls away, turns, and leaves you standing alone in the lounge.

* * *

Sun wakes you up.

Light burns beneath your eyelids and you release a muffled groan, trying to block it out as you shift beneath the covers. Your eyes crack open slowly and you blink up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The familiar walls of the penthouse guest-room greet you and a groan bubbles at the back of your throat. You feel even more tired now than when you first went to sleep, collapsing on the messy bed after being left alone in the lounge.

The room seems to glow with brightness when you shuffle from underneath the expensive cotton that kept you warm. No more nightmares visited you, but you can’t help but think it’s more due to sheer exhaustion than anything else.

You stop by the bathroom briefly, avoiding your own reflection, and change into new clothes after washing up. Your bruised hands appear even worse today and just before you leave, you risk a brief glance in the mirror.

_Is today the day I die?_

It might be. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sought out yet—that you know of—and it makes you both confused and shackled with dread.

You look exactly how you feel: terrible. Still, alive is better than nothing and you settle for that. There have been days in the past when even _that_ had seemed like too much of a task. Yet here you are.

_Still here._

Straightening your slumped shoulders, you tilt your chin in that arrogant manner Santino always does and inhale deeply, your spine a rigid line. Your fingertips dance over the silver chain around your neck, settling briefly on the weight at the bottom and you shake your head, tucking it under your clothes again. The cool tickle of the metal fades quickly and you feel ready to face the day.

Yesterday was a bad day, that much is evident. But today still remains to be seen.

With that thought, you leave the guest room—your room, Santino always insists—and cut through the apartment.

“—what I want to know is how this was even _possible_,” Santino’s distant and already irritated voice greets you. “I want _answers_.”

You poke your head in the lounge, your eyes cutting across the open space to the other side where the open plan kitchen-diner stretches with the New York skyline for a backdrop.

He stands with his back to you, clad in a fresh dark moss-green suit and not a crease out of place. He looks out towards the city while he talks, and you can read familiar ticks in his body language that tell you he’s not enjoying the conversation he’s having one bit.

Ares and Roberto are here as well. The former rises from the dining table when she spots you, and Roberto’s face stretches into a slight, relieved smile beneath his beard when you wink at him.

_You are as bad as him when it comes to trouble_, Ares signs as she approaches. She’s clad in her own dark navy suit today, and you suppress a grin at the pinch of her mouth.

_Worried?_ you sign back with a grin, and she punches your shoulder before wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

_No, but he has a habit of becoming unbearable when you are injured_, she explains with a pout and you give her a brief, one-armed hug before flicking her nose lightly. She swats your hand, mock glaring, but there’s relief there too.

_Still alive_, you reassure her, and her eyebrow arches, disbelieving and cautious too as the scar near her eye crinkles.

Santino has clearly filled her in on the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh, and I suppose Perkins just _strolled in_ and tried to kill her under _your_ roof by a happy mistake, then,” Santino’s voice slices through the room like a whip and your head snaps in his direction. “Do _not_ presume me to be a fool, Winston.”

Your eyes cut towards Ares, a clear question there, but she gives you a halfhearted shrug that seems to say _you know how he is_.

Your grip on her loosens and you cut through the room quickly, coming to stand beside him, expectant. Santino’s eyes find yours and they soften a touch, his eyes sweeping over your features, searching. Your head tilts and you hold out your hand.

A faint frown lingers across the planes of his face before he sighs unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. “She is awake and wishes to speak with you,” he informs briskly and doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds out his phone as an offering. You can only imagine Winston’s expression on the other end. Their dislike for one another would be comical if it wasn’t for the fact that you want them to _get on for once_. Life would be so much simpler if they did.

Biting back a disapproving grumble, you take the phone from him, pressing it to your ear.

“Winston.”

“Still alive, I see.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, a touch sardonic. “You too.”

You expect Santino to walk away but he lingers beside you and when you glance at him, he stands still, his green eyes simply taking you in. You can’t help but think that he knows. _Understands_.

Yesterday was a rare moment of weakness, softness, that you no longer show people. He can no doubt tell that the wall is back up again, and the vulnerability of yesterday is locked away once again.

The wall between you is there but his focus doesn’t drop, probing and fierce as always. Sometimes it scares you. Because he looks like he’s going to tear that wall down with his bare hands alone. You’re not sure what, if anything, is holding him back from doing _exactly_ that. If Santino wants something, he takes it. For him, it’s that simple.

He stands with you for another few seconds, thoughtful, before turning away without another word and wandering away, his hands slipping into his pockets.

He looks tired, you realise as you watch him go, and it makes you wonder if he got any sleep last night. Even if you were to ask, you’re unsure if he would tell you the truth. He doesn’t like showing weakness to others, and after yesterday you’re not sure where you stand with him, either. If that openness he sometimes shows still extends towards you.

You’re constantly pushing and pulling at each other, never quite finding the balance.

_You are under my protection._

Inhaling, you clear your mind. “Did you find Marcus?”

It’s quiet for a beat before Winston speaks again. “Yes, we did,” he says, and there is graveness to his voice that makes your eyes drop. “Tortured. But the cause of death was multiple shot wounds.”

Your eyes squeeze shut for a breath. “I want him to have a proper funeral,” you voice weakly, your vocalisation heavy with…_failure_. Marcus lost his life and— “No unnamed graves. I’ll pay for it.”

The distant sound of traffic filters through from the other side and you realise that Winston must be having breakfast on the rooftop terrace again. “The rules were broken,” he notes coolly. “The very least the company can do is handle the arrangements.”

A lump in your throat turns you momentarily speechless and you nod your head, knowing full well that he can’t see you. “Thank you, Winston,” you tell him, your voice thick with genuine appreciation. “Perkins?”

“Early _retirement_. Occupation hazard, I’m afraid.”

Oh, it would be a _lie_ to say there isn’t a flash of ruthless, victorious sort of satisfaction that rushes through you at that. It won’t bring back Harry or Marcus, but at least those who killed them have now met a similar fate.

“Such a shame.”

“_Indeed_.”

You bite back a grin at his dry, deadpan tone.

“And Johnathan?” Winston wonders.

You swallow, recalling his worn, pained expression from last night. “Alive.”

His hesitance at hearing that surprises you.

“_Good_. Well, if Mr. D’Antonio can bear to be parted from you for longer than an hour we need to talk in private,” Winston informs you, and you can’t quite read his tone but it does make you feel oddly uneasy. “Should I expect you for lunch?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you reply, though the hesitance in your voice is clear.

Winston bids you farewell before the line goes dead but you stand there for another minute, staring out into the city. The majestic landscape stretches out as far as the eye can see and you allow yourself to soak it in. If the whole “you see your life flash before your eyes” thing is real, you want something good to look back on when the time comes.

Lowering the phone, you turn towards the kitchen. Santino sits behind the dinner table, breakfast laid out in front of him as he reads over something in his hand. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on one side of him with an empty espresso cup on the other. Sometimes, you can’t help but appreciate the routine, the ease, that comes with being in his space.

Ares stands beside him, frowning down at the card in his hand and you feel your momentary casualness fade. You approach them few steady steps at the time and tense when Santino suddenly slams the white paper on the table harshly. The sound rips through the open space with a loudness of a small explosion and you watch his expression splinter. 

“She has some _nerve_,” he hisses in Italian, and his eyes blaze.

“What’s going on?” you question worriedly, placing his phone on the table and grabbing the card instead. The material feels thick and expensive with a faint scent of perfume tickling your nose—sage, bergamot, grapefruit; and something oddly specific and new to you that you can’t decipher immediately—and you can’t help but think of the High Table. Have they found out it was you who shot Tarasov? Made some sort of demand? “What’s this?”

Your eyes hurriedly sweep over the golden letters.

_Oh_.

“My darling sister,” Santino begins, his words strangled with rage, thickening his accent. “Decided that it would be apt to invite me to her coronation. And for _what_? To laugh in my face? _As if_—” 

He breaks off, his mouth twisting into a sneer before he stands, tugging on his suit harshly as he drops the serviette back on the table, pushing past you. You turn, following his swift retreat, and look towards Ares who stands there with an equally startled expression.

_She knows what this meant to him_, she signs and there’s a sharpness to her movements that betray her own irritation.

Exhaling knowingly, you place the card back on the table and give both Ares and the awkwardly silent Roberto a look. “I’ll talk with him. Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone for looking at him funny today.”

Pocketing his phone, you depart the kitchen, already having a good idea where to find him. Climbing up the grand staircase, you emerge onto the terrace. The brisk breeze ruffles your clothes and hair but you immediately spot Santino in the far distance. His fingers drum against the railing as he stares down at the city below him. It’s a different sight to one from last night. Today he breathes that cold, unpredictable violence instead of calm.

“Dramatic much?” you call out but the way of opening up the conversation.

His grip on the railing tightens and his shoulders shake in a mockery of a laugh.

“_Ah_, right now may not be the best time, amore,” he replies with a deliberate exhale, his voice flat and biting. “I would prefer if we avoided you getting angry at me first thing in the morning.”

“It had to be done, grumpy,” you point out carefully as you come to stand beside him, giving him a deliberate nudge with your elbow. “You’re still a Camorra heir, even if a Spare. Inviting you is tradition. Gianna may not be the nicest person around but she _is_ proud and won’t go for a cheap shot like this. You know that. Besides, you don’t have to go. I don’t think it would surprise many people if you didn’t show up.”

“_Tradition_,” he repeats with a scoff, scornful and dissonant. “I just—”

His voice is heavy with frustration, with the damage he tries to bury, and you glance up at him. “I know.”

He’s disappointed and jealous. You may know a thing or two about that.

You reach into your pocket and hold out his phone to him. Santino looks down at it and reaches out. But instead of taking the phone, he takes your hand, cradling it in his larger one.

“_Santino_.”

A plea and a warning.

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words, hollow, and his voice dips, lowering till it’s almost a whisper; his own plea. “But let me pretend. Even if only for a moment, _hm_? Would you do that for me, bella?”

_Let me pretend that you love me._

Your heart _aches_.

In this dazzling morning sun, you feel helplessly exposed. In the shadows of the night, it’s so easy to pretend, to forget, to imagine that things are still simple between you. That this _something_ between you doesn’t frighten you. That the way he’s looking at you right now isn’t ripping at that wall between you with enough force to make the foundation itself tremble. 

“Vancouver,” you choke out, grasping for something—anything—to say. “You never told me how it went.”

His scrutiny doesn’t drop and you feel his thumb ghost over your knuckles. You hold incredibly still to avoid showing any sign of discomfort or pain but judging by his pinched expression, you fail at your task.

“Small loss of 400k,” he divulges in Italian, absentminded, and continues peering at you. “But we got the shipment back. However, the lead on who ordered the hit went cold. Very…_frustrating_.”

Only Santino D’Antonio would think a loss of 400k is a small one. But you also know that the whole shipment came closer to being 5 million in value so, in hindsight, you do understand his flippant outlook on it.

“If it weren’t for the High Table looming over me, I would say let’s go on a hunt,” you comment mildly, forcing a smile. But it’s difficult to keep a straight face when he’s tracing the ridges between your knuckles with such measured tenderness. Hands with just as much blood, if not more, on them hold your own carefully and something about it... “_I_—”

You tug your hand away from his, your expression faltering.

Santino gazes down at his phone blankly for a moment before slipping it inside his suit pocket, his own expression removed. Distant with its coolness.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly and find that you can’t meet his stare. “I _can’t_.”

You hate the fact that you have to say _no_ to him now of all the times. After what he did for you yesterday, after what _you_ did to _him_. It’s so unfair and you hate yourself at that moment more than anything. That here, possibly at the end of it all, you still _can’t_—

You don’t want—

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t give him any now.

“Winston asked me to see him _alone_.”

“I know, cara mia.”

“That’s _it_?”

His eyes flash and his head tilts. “What is it that you wish me to say, _hm_?”

“If I never see you again—”

“Do _not_.”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such a vehement refusal to accept what you both know full well might be your reality. 

So instead you step closer to him. The breeze brushes against his curls but unlike last night the unruly strands stay in place. He looks cautious, almost wary, to have you this near but you only lean closer. Your hand comes to rest against his left cheek while you press your lips lightly against his right. The warmth of him is so familiar you linger for a second, warmed by the moment itself, while he stands taut in front of you, still and silent. Breathing softly, you pull back and find his eyes closed, expression serene, and trace your fingertips down his cheek before stepping back and letting them drop away.

Despite not being able to pretend in a way he wants you to, you can still give him _this_.

You see him swallow just before you turn back towards the patio door and walk away.

_I wish we had more time._

* * *

“If you plan to kill me, you picked a hell of a spot.”

Winston doesn’t even raise his head, still focused on his notebook as he continues scribbling something down. His handwriting is too elegant and cramped for you to get a good look at what he’s working on, and honestly, you know better than to try and poke around his business. 

“Kill you?” he echoes, his voice bored. “People are enjoying their lunch, dear, don’t be ridiculous. And do sit down,” he adds when you don’t move from your spot in front of him.

You don’t want to _sit down_. It feels like an invisible blade has pressed against your neck, and you can feel it kissing your fragile skin with every second that crawls by. You know how these things go. Winston is in his kingdom and the walls that have always felt like safety—home—now feel like a threat.

Despite your open unease, you move towards the expensive leather sofa opposite to him and sit down stiffly. Your gaze, cautious and wary, sweeps over the dining guests intently. Anyone tries to take you on, and you will split them open. Yesterday’s acceptance of your looming death has seemingly up and vanished, and now there’s just an aloof sort of irritation left behind.

What did you do so wrong?

Killed a man who murdered your parents and then kept you chained to him like a dog for _years_?

That’s _justice_, not a crime. 

“So, what am I looking at?”

He still doesn’t look at you, and his silence makes you almost fidget with nerves. When has anything good ever come from Winston keeping silent like this? His anger has always come in a different form to what you’re used to. No—his anger is like a chilly winter’s day. When the air is crisp and full of promise that there’s a blizzard coming soon. Almost unassuming in its vicious bite. 

“They think it was Johnathan.”

You stare at him. “_What_?”

The man before you ‘tsk’s and scribbles something else in his notebook. “Trouble hearing at such a young age?”

Oh, he’s _annoyed_ alright. But your heart is fluttering in your chest, and relief starts rushing through you before you can stop it. Does he really mean that? Has the High Table really concluded that it was John?

Did you really get away with killing Viggo Tarasov?

“Winston,” you bite out, forcefully calm. “What the hell do you mean they _think_ it was John?”

Finally—_finally_—Winston’s eyes lift to you. He regards you coolly over his glasses, his lips pressed into a stiff line. He shifts in his seat, lowering his pen slightly and you hold his stare.

“Well the High Table was made aware of what was happening in New York,” he explains and you know full well that he was the one doing the reporting. As is standard procedure for every Continental owner. “And there is no one left alive to disapprove their theory.”

That gives you a pause. Because it’s true.

Everyone directly involved with Viggo—the man himself, his son, his elite guard—have all been butchered by either John or you. Even Marcus and Perkins are dead.

The only people left alive who know what really happened are you, John, Winston, and Santino. Ares may know most of it too but other than _that_…

“So they just…_assumed_?” you wonder in a whisper, almost choked with disbelief, with hope and joy. “Didn’t question it?”

Winston makes a small noise at the back of his throat and his lips twist into a wry, cynical thing. “_Of course_ they did. They found the lack of your involvement suspicious,” he states and watches your reaction. “They asked for a report. I had to tell them the truth. That you were attacked on company grounds, and I told you to walk away which you did. I assume that Mr. D’Antonio had the pleasure of your company for the rest of the night.”

You blink, your eyes narrowing. For him to say that…

“Santino wasn’t back in New York till 1am,” you word as carefully as you can, and your eyes sweep over the diners again, cautious. Of course, if this conversation wasn’t safe for you to have out here in the lounge, then you won’t be having it. Still, it feels like too much of an invite for people to let their ears stray. “That’s almost a five-hour window in which Tarasov died and I’m unaccounted for.”

“Yes, but it seems like signor D’Antonio had enough sense to corroborate your alibi and lie on your behalf regardless,” he says and you feel your heart stutter in your chest, your lips parting slightly in shock. “He may be a Spare but he is _still_ Camorra. His word, it seems, still carries a degree of power.”

Winston’s eyebrow cocks at your stunned expression and his smile is a little too patronising for your taste. “He didn’t tell you,” he assumes and sighs, glancing back at his notes, and you read the subtle irritation there. “That certainly explains why he’s outside my hotel right now and has it surrounded.”

For a moment, it’s silent. The lounge is still a buzz of cutlery and murmurs of chatter between diners but the silence between you is suffocating with implication. Winston watches you, amused, and you kick your brain back into action. Dismayed. 

“He’s _what_?”

_You are under my protection._

The phantom of him leans over your shoulder, looming and protective, all sharp edges and that sly smirk, and you feel both cold and hot all at once. What the hell is he _thinking_? Does he really believe that if it came down to it he could save you from _the High Table_? What even is his plan? To break down Winston’s front door and paint the walls of Continental with blood?

The repercussions for such a breach of rules _alone_—

He could be stripped of his power, punished, he—

_Insane_.

He’s a goddamn insane idiot. He—

_I will never abandon you._

“He promised me that he will keep me safe from the High Table.”

It comes out as a strangled whisper.

Winston hums, and you hear the hint of mockery there. “Promised? How quint,” he mutters, and takes his glasses off, placing them between the pages of his notebook. “I do wonder what value the word of _Santino D’Antonio_ holds in today’s market.”

“The word of the old Camorra.”

_That_ gets a reaction.

The man blinks, his face slacking with disbelief—maybe even shock—for a single second before his expression goes back to that familiar impersonal mask. 

“My, my. He certainly _is_ full of surprises, isn’t he?” he questions, but you can tell he’s not expecting an answer from you. His eyebrows are still raised though. He knows full well what those words mean. What power they hold, and with them you see understanding overtake his features. If before Santino’s presence outside his door was an annoyance, now it’s certainly _still_ an annoyance but at least with an explanation. “Not that it would have made a difference, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Still reeling from the conversation at hand, you can’t help but bite out an irritated, “What’s with the attitude? Do you want an apology, is that it? You _knew_ I would go after Tarasov. You even told me where they were.”

Winston’s weathered features draw into a deep frown. The blue of his eyes is cutting as he observes you shrewdly for a long moment.

“Yes, I did,” he begins, and you feel your shoulders curl downwards at his tone; reproachful, displeased. “With the hope that you would be smarter about this and help Johnathan to finish it instead of doing what you did. He gets his revenge and you are free of your debt. You both walk away without consequences. But instead, you _broke_ the rules, (Name). Had the High Table pulled on so much as a _thread_, I would have had no choice but to tell them everything. You missed losing your life by an _inch_. By nothing more than sheer dumb luck and chance. You, better than most, know that luck doesn’t get you far in our world. You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time. Luck _always_ runs out, and when it does consequences follow.”

The void his words leave between you is unforgiving and heavy. The worst part is that you know he’s _right_. Luck and chance. Death missed you by a hair.

If it hadn’t been for Winston withholding information. If it hadn't been for Santino lying on your behalf…

You would be dead.

It still doesn’t stop the simmer of rage in your gut though. Of pain and helplessness. You’re silent for longer than you would have liked purely because you can’t speak over the swell of emotion inside you.

You want—_need_—him to understand.

Understand that despite his inherent belief in rules and order, sometimes they bind you from getting justice. That sometimes the _righteous_ thing to do can be the _wrong_ thing to do. That in a world of killers, liars, and thieves, the grey area is all that exists.

No one who lives in this world, who thrives in it, is _good_.

“_Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it._”

Giovanni D’Antonio had at least _that_ right.

The blood on your hands may haunt you, but it has also made you powerful, feared, respected.

You can’t—will _not_—be ashamed of that.

“After everything he took from me…it _had_ to be me, Winston,” you croak out, your voice a mangled mess. Something flickers across the manager's expression and the nature of his regard changes. “It _had_ to be by my hand. Consequences be damned.”

Because you would have regretted it for the rest of your life. Revenge is an ugly thing. But you had _needed_ it. It’s true that you could have left Tarasov to die there. Let him meet a miserable, slow end. It would have been _easy_. But you would have spent the rest of your life feeling cheated out of the twisted justice you’ve craved and bettered yourself for, for years. 

“And?” Winston wonders, surprisingly quiet and curious. “Do you feel happy (Name)? Fulfilled now that it’s done?”

Your lips stretch back, baring your teeth to him in a mockery of a smile, off-tilter and twisted. “I don’t feel a _damn_ thing.”

Your hand comes to cover your face and you rub your trembling fingers against your temple, your eyes burning. 

“_(Name)_,” he speaks deliberately, and there’s something softer in his voice this time. A tiny shift you won’t have noticed if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have. “Are you _well_?”

You laugh. It sounds as wrecked, as ruined, as the rest of you.

_“No_,” you admit because you both know it’s true. Your head slants, your arm dropping from your face, but your sardonic smile remains. “But I have no choice but to go on. It’s not like the last time,” you add upon noticing the deep furrow of his brows.

He peers at you with a look that makes you feel oddly vulnerable, oddly naked under that knowing, wise stare. It’s an echo of a look from years ago. From before Chicago. 

“I presume you already know that I could get you safe passage out of the city by sundown if you need it,” he speaks slowly, his scrutiny not letting up, and you lace your trembling fingers together. Emotions bubble at the back of your throat as you stare at each other wordlessly. 

“And you think that I should?” you wonder at last, soft and frayed. “Just run away?”

Winston gazes at you for a long minute and you distantly wonder what exactly he sees before him. You’ve never gotten a sense that he pities you—not once, not even when you were at your absolute worst—and despite everything, an ember of affection warms your chest as you peer at him. But Winston is still Winston. He’s as ruthless as the worst of them—perhaps even more so.

“I think,” he begins after a lengthy pause between you. “That for the first time in your life, you get to choose for yourself.”

Your head dips and you nod a little, dragging your hands up and down your thighs till you can feel the tremble subside somewhat. In your head, as always, you count. It helps. The relief of knowing that—for now at least—you are safe is immense too, overpowering almost everything else.

“Thank you, Winston. For everything,” you say to him, serious and soft; an echo of your letter to him. “And especially for stopping me from killing Perkins. For covering for me.”

The man nods his head once, looking a little wary when you rise to your feet. There is instability in your step that you know he picks up on immediately but doesn’t comment upon.

“But I still have loose ends to deal with in New York,” you inform him and exhale, thinking about Santino outside. A shadow from your shared past still lingers and you don’t like the idea of hiding from it. “Besides running now might make the High Table even more suspicious. I rather they don’t poke around further. Like you said…chance and luck.”

The older man places his glasses back on his face and studies you for another charged moment. Winston is not the type to disregard what you want but perhaps for the first time since before Chicago, he’s considering it.

“Be that it may, the offer still stands,” he states and a weak smile blooms across your face. 

You’re about to open your mouth and reply when you hear someone walk up—heavy steps, off-balanced, most likely injured—to you. Your head turns and you feel something coil in your gut.

“John.”

He looks better than he did yesterday but obvious pain still lingers across his features. His suit is messier too—as if he didn’t have the energy to smooth out the creases the way he usually does. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you with clear relief and you swallow, trying to steel yourself under his scrutiny. He doesn’t need to know what the events of yesterday have managed to break and mangle inside you.

“Can I talk to you?”

It’s ridiculous how uneasy that question makes you feel. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ burn on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force yourself to say either. 

“Jonathan,” Winston speaks in a greeting and when your eyes find him, you note his pointed stare. He’s buying you time to make up your mind. “So good to see you back with us again. And so _soon_.”

“Winston,” John greets back but his stare doesn’t stray from you.

Sighing, you clear your throat and glance back at your old partner.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private.”

* * *

_Wait for me. We need to talk._

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

_I’ll be outside—Santi_

Pocketing your phone with a faint sigh, you turn back towards John who sits on the loveseat in clear discomfort. He tries to hide it but you can read his tells.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” you state flatly, and it’s impossible to miss your accusatory tone. “You do realise how close you came to death less than 24 hours ago, right?”

John breathes deeply, laboured; an exercise to block out the pain you know well enough. The only painkiller you’ve been able to locate inside his house was aspirin. Hardly the best drug given the circumstances due to its blood-thinning qualities but it’s not like you had any alternatives. In fact, with the wound tightly stitched, aspirin at least gave you some relief that the chances of him developing a blood clot have been reduced.

But watching him struggle with every inhale makes you bite back another sigh and move towards your work desk. Everything is still in place though the general mess from last night has been cleaned up. Your eyes snag onto two letters still sitting peacefully on your desk and you pause. You’ve been so _ready_ to say goodbye. The desperation you’ve felt yesterday had blinded you but you don’t regret it. If you could avoid involving them, you still would. Even at the expense of your own life.

You reach for the two envelopes and input a code on the small keypad as your storage box opens. Inside, most of the spare solutions you’ve made in recent months. The rest sit safe and secure in the vaults underneath the hotel. The Continental is one of the few places you trust to store them.

You place the letters inside, lingering, and grab one of the vials on the side. The pale green liquid inside glimmers and you shake it a few times. Closing the door, you hear the telltale _beep_ of the locks securing and turn back towards John again.

You hesitate for a second before you approach him, extending your hand.

Judging by his body mass, the dosage _should_ be enough. 

“For the pain and the swelling,” you inform him stiffly. “I’m still working on perfecting it so you’re better off going back to your room and sleeping this off. It will make you pretty dizzy and drowsy too. But besides Doc’s own work this is the best you can hope for around these parts. Should help with any possible infection too.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Your eyes shoot up to him, surprised. He holds your stare but reaches for the vial, his touch hesitant.

“Thought the High Table nabbed me?” you wonder with a humourless smile. “No. I left on my own accord.”

He digests your words, and you know that he understands what you’re trying to say. That you left because you didn’t want to stay. That even though he asked, you had the will to stand up and walk out of the door. That now, unlike before, it’s almost easy. _Almost_.

He gazes at you silently, and for split second you see the John from your dream. The John that always turns away. The John that always leaves. The John that’s always out of reach.

Just John.

“So what are you planning to do now?” you ask after the potent tension between you becomes near unbearable. “Your revenge is complete. I assume you know about Marcus too.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” John replies, and his quiet words are laced with pain. Marcus has been as much of a friend to John as he’s been a mentor. Back in their military days, all they had was each other. You know first hand how much protecting and fighting together binds people. How trust in them becomes an instinct, natural and effortless. “It’s my fault he died.”

“I talked him into it,” you say tightly, and your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to let guilt claw up your throat and steal your voice. “He—it was _my_ fault. I underestimated Tarasov. His death is on me.”

Silence, and then, “I shouldn’t have involved either of you. I’m so sorry.”

Your attention goes back to him and you observe him coolly for several minutes.

The vial in his hand is empty and you smile again; even if it lacks warmth. “So how does it _feel_? Was it worth it? Your revenge?”

John doesn’t offer you an answer which is an answer in itself. His eyes lower and you notice him touch his wedding band, delicate and loving. A grieving husband. Perhaps it’s no wonder he rushed into this the way he did. When you’re hurting so much nothing else matters. You just want some form of release, an escape. Something to distract you from the misery of your own thoughts.

You know what that’s like.

“I owe you a debt,” he finally voices and you wonder if he realises how empty he sounds. How weary and reluctant. “The High Table—”

“Thinks that it was you.”

John’s eyes snap back to you, and you smile again, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“Didn’t Winston tell you?” you question, a bite to your words that never used to be present when you talked. “I figured with the Russians possibly having something to say about Tarasov’s death he would have told you.”

John sighs and shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers ghosting over his wound. The sequence of little movements that just makes him look more miserable. “No, he didn’t,” he admits and you don’t quite understand his expression. “He isn’t too happy with me right now,” he adds wryly.

Your head tilts in confusion but before you can ask him anything else, he speaks, “Who will take over Tarasov’s mob?”

For a moment, you consider pursuing your previous line of inquiry but decide to drop it for now. Winston isn’t exactly happy with either of you at this moment.

Sighing, you consider his question. “Abram if I had to take a guess,” you divulge, and watch him dip his chin in consideration. “He’s the only blood relative of Viggo’s left. Igor may try to claim it but Abram has enough respect and pull to hold the position. Igor also doesn’t know New York the way Abram does. After such a heavy loss they need a strong leader who knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he have the power to call in your debt?”

“No,” you say without hesitation, and your eyes narrow on him. “Only an heir can inherit a debt unpaid. Viggo named his son his heir. He hoped that it would make Iosef step up to the plate. Man up. But, well, you know how well that worked out. Abram has no claim over my debt.”

For the first time since stepping inside your room, you see relief on John’s face. “So you’re _free_.”

You swallow thickly.

Those words make your skin _itch_.

Freedom.

A lack of leash does not amount to freedom.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper and it sounds faint. “I’m pretty sure the High Table has to officially release me first. That’s assuming they don’t uncover any damning evidence that places me at the docks.”

John peers at you but his gaze now lacks that sharp edge. Your solution is starting to take effect. His muscles have started to relax, and the strain of pain that previously lingered across his features has been wiped away.

“You should be resting,” you remind him and clear your throat, glancing towards the window to avoid his stare. Your folded fingers twitch and you tighten your grip, your nails biting into your flesh even though it strains the bruised skin. “Go back, John. All those years ago, I told you to be happy. Your revenge is _done_. Go back and be glad that this ended as happily as it did. This isn’t your life anymore. You don’t belong here.”

It’s a cruel thing to say.

But so was _I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen._

So was walking out of that hotel room door knowing full well that the person you are leaving behind loves you more than anything.

You no longer know how to be kind and soft with him and it pains you.

John remains quiet for a long time after that. His expression creases with thought, troubling and deep, if the heavy curve of his shoulders is anything to go by. And when his stare does finally go back to you, as dark and as piercing as it has always been, you feel your heartbeat spike.

“I’m going to find my car first.”

And just like that, you _know_. 

_This isn’t over_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you know when you all said how you want protective!Santi??? WELL HOW WAS THIS, HUH??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Also sorry if 1) this chapter got a bit heavy but wherein most people would be hyped up and ready to take on the world I kinda felt like all this suddenly piling on top of her would negatively affect V, making her retreat and break down a bit 2) if this reads rougher than usual. this part has been a bit of a struggle to write due to some outside factors and me straight up not having a great time these last few weeks. 
> 
> As always, I adore you all. Thank you so, SO much for reading this series and being so incredibly passionate about it.


	9. bullet to your head;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So sorry for the delay. I was taking a break but I also have a tendency to forget and update my AO3 *insert clown emoji here* 
> 
> If you want to up to date with all things COA and lots of juicy extras/aus/headcanons, feel free to follow me on tumblr @the-darklings for all the extra content and new updates! Hope you're all having a wonderful day and enjoyyyy!!

You move down the staircase quickly, your feet nimble against the concrete as you approach the large, blinding white car.

Across from you, Ares greets you with a subdued grin and hands clasped in front of her. She can no doubt read your expression, read the way your jaw and fingers keep flexing and your eyes shimmer with emotion. Beside Ares, Roberto shifts, clearly wary of how this will go, but moves to open the car door for you.

No other car you recognise is around, and if it had been anyone other than Winston himself telling you about Santino surrounding the place, you won’t have believed them.

It’s peaceful.

Or at least as peaceful as New York City can be at rush hour.

_Why would you let him do this?_ you sign and know that your movements are sharp with anger.

Ares frowns slightly, nonplussed by your display of irritation and gives you a pointed look.

_Did you really think we would just stand by and watch? _

You have nothing to say in reply to that. Because if the situation had been reversed and it had been Santino, or even Ares herself, you wouldn’t have let it go either. You would have fought for them. But the mere thought of how close it all came to ending very badly cramps your stomach with an anxious, crippling sort of fear.

You don’t want to lose anyone else.

Sharing a long look, you both stand in silence for a moment before you incline your head and slide inside the large vehicle.

Green eyes watch you from behind his folded fingers that rest in front of his face. He looks solemn in a way you rarely see from him. He’s always been on the showy side. Santino likes making spectacles of his power. You imagine it appeals to his egoistical nature—his natural thirst for more, always _more_.

The world and everything in it is not enough.

In the seconds that take for Roberto to close the door, neither of you speak, silently observing the other with a grave sort of seriousness.

The door slams shut and the stillness between you stretches.

“Of all the stupid things to do, Santino,” you begin eventually, emotionless, direct. “What were you _thinking_?”

He doesn’t answer you. It takes another prolonged moment to realise what exactly he _is_ doing. He’s drinking in the sight of you. Perhaps because he—even more so than you—realises how much of a close call this has been. Certainly the closest since Chicago.

“Why would you do this?” you demand after another lull of quiet between you, desperate for some sort of clarification.

His silence is starting to make you uncomfortable. Because it drags on and on and on. Because he is here and—

“I gave you my word, (Name). I _swore_ to you,” he says, at last, finally lowering his hands into his lap. He shifts in his seat and the intensity of his regard makes you uneasy. Danger crowds all around you because deep down you know that right now Santino may say something that will crumble that wall between you. “Do you know how many times I have done so, and _not_ gotten rid of the other party immediately after?”

You swallow and shake your head.

“_Once_,” he reveals to you, his features drawn and voice flat. “Only you. Does that adequately answer your question, carissima?”

“And if it had ended in blood?”

Something flickers across his expression; something cold and vicious and cruel. “Then so be it,” he intones softly; a cutting caress, a purr of his accent that sinks into you. “I would have torn that building apart brick by brick to get to you.”

“Stop.”

His expression creases with confusion.

“_Stop_,” you repeat, tighter, pained. “You don’t—I _know_ you, Santino. All you care about is power. You will always choose Camorra _first_, despite what you might think. We both know that.”

His features harden at that, his eyes narrowing. There is nothing he can say because you're right. It doesn’t make you angry or sad anymore. You have gone through this before. And you know he cares—that there is that small shred of him that’s still capable of good, and he shows it to you.

But John cared too, and he still left. 

“It’s _okay_. They’re your family,” you soothe with a small, forlorn smile. “You’re the blood of Camorra. What was it that you said to me once? _Blood for blood_? Those are your family’s words. I’m grateful for what you did, I _am_. More than you know but don’t ever do that again. You don’t risk your position for me.”

He sits up abruptly, his composure cracking around the edges and you instinctively tense before relaxing. His eyes rage as he stares at you, his elbows resting on his thighs and the charged silence between you hangs. His head dips slightly and his lips twist into a slight, biting smile. 

“I gave you the word of old Camorra,” he reminds softly, and leans so close you smell him—can feel the heat of him in your space. “I don’t think you _quite_ grasp the severity of such a promise, cara. In the eyes of the High Table, I made an unbreakable vow to protect you. They could never—”

“You would have broken one of their two sacred rules to protect me,” you argue immediately, and that pang of worry you felt earlier sharpens your words. “The table would have outvoted Camorra and consequences of that—”

“I don’t care about the consequences.”

You gaze at him silently. The stubborn tilt of his chin, at that unyielding, wilful look in his eyes, the inherent pride with which he holds himself. Santino usually doesn’t care for consequences, you know that, but this is not like other times.

“_Don’t_ you?” you whisper gently, sadly, and unleash a question that’s been plaguing you for years, knowing full well the damage it will do. “So if it came down to a choice between myself and Camorra?”

He jerks back, his previously parted lips pressing shut tightly at your question. With a flicker, the enraged worry fades and something distant takes its place. You see it happen, watch how he puts up his own wall up brick-by-brick. It empties his expression of that achingly familiar fondness and openness he shows seemingly only to you. The Camorra heir is the only thing left. A shell of a man you know. A shell that he shows others but not you, never you. Not anymore.

Chaos rages in his eyes but he doesn’t speak a word, clearly caught off guard by your purposeful backing into a corner.

There is no correct way to answer this. He cares for you. But he _loves_ Camorra—it’s everything to him. His past, present, and future too. Regardless of how he might feel about his ties and position in it. If he means his words about protecting you, then he would have to sacrifice everything.

So maybe he cares, and maybe he wants to protect you, but you are not worth _everything_.

At least this time, you are not blindsided by the care of another to see that truth. 

“That’s what I thought,” you note quietly and he swallows, unblinking. You try for a smile and reach out, lightly placing your fingers on his still hand, squeezing once. “It’s _okay_, grumpy. I would never ask you to make that choice anyway.”

You release your hold on him and move to open the door but he intercepts you, his burning fingers latching onto your wrist. Your eyes meet and his stare is frenzied as he peers at you, clearly looking for something to say.

“_You_. I—”

You can count on one hand the number of times you have seen Santino of all people struggling for words. But they seem to have escaped him, and you wait another moment before freeing your wrist from his hold, giving him a terse smile.

“Please, don’t lie to me,” you request seriously, and open the car door. “Not _you_.”

He doesn’t try to stop you again.

* * *

Unlike the last time you were here, there’s no rain. This time, the sun shines high and bright, its rays warming the skin of your cheek as you stare blankly ahead.

The ceremony is modest but Marcus has never had many friends. Such is the life of an assassin for hire. You are loyal to no one but yourself. Some have friends, others even create families but that rarely ends well unless you have the power to keep them hidden and safe. And even then, accidents happen and misfortune befalls people at most unexpected times and you know that well.

The casket sits surrounded by a sea of flowers, beautiful and lustrous, and your eyes move away, making you shift in your black dress uncomfortably. You never did sort out your problems before he—

The sun shining directly in your eyes makes your head hurt even more, and you blink the blinding rays away. The last three days have been dedicated to your work. To crushing ingredients and extracting necessary compounds for your solutions and poisons. It’s been long hours of boiling, drying and distilling different ingredients. Poison making takes time and precision. Your stock has been running dangerously low due to your busy schedule over these last few months, and this has been as good a time as any. An escape. Besides, you didn’t want to appear suspicious. It’s a known fact that you often disappear for close to a week, completely submerging yourself in work. If the High Table is watching, they will see you simply carrying on with your normal routine.

You’ve also left a message with Charon before disappearing. No one but Winston or the High Table itself is to disturb you.

Not like it has stopped Santino from trying. You haven’t answered any of his calls or texts. Or John’s for that matter. You have left them both with a simple ‘_Busy working. Will speak to you soon._’ before going silent. Truthfully, you weren’t in the headspace to deal with _either_ of them, and the many, many complications that come with them.

The last few days have been too destructive on you. Your relapse has struck hard, and you’ve been avoiding sleep unless absolutely necessary which, while hardly a solution, at least allows you time to work. To focus on something other than the abyss inside you, dark and foul. It’s easier to work yourself to the bone till you pass out from exhaustion and only vaguely recall hazy, fervent dreams than to experience them for yourself. Easier to pretend that you are _happy_ and _free_ and _fixed_ now that Tarasov is dead.

Footsteps draw closer towards you from behind, and your fingers snake around a concealed blade in your jacket sleeve.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the side and you pause, the knot between your shoulder blades loosening. 

“John. I didn’t expect you to show up,” you greet, a touch wary when he comes to stand beside you clad in one of his customary black suits. “I figured you leaving the Continental meant that you’ve gone back.”

Back to his old life. Gone, possibly, for good.

Sunlight bathes him in a warm glow, giving him an appearance of an ordinary man dragged out from his life in the shadows and into the light. The curve of his shoulders is heavy though as is the subdued glimmer of pain in his eyes as he peers at the casket in front of him. The priest keeps reciting verses and for a second you think he’s not going to answer you at all. That perhaps he didn’t hear you over the loudness of his own mind.

“Marcus was my oldest friend,” he finally says after a period of stillness between you. “It’s the least I can do.”

Indeed he was.

And now he’s gone.

All because of Tarasov. All because you assumed your gamble will pay off without any problems and that Tarasov’s fury will be directed only at you.

“He never should have—it’s not _fair_,” you breathe thickly, pained, and your tiredness only makes the stinging pain more intense. “In some twisted way it still...it _still_ feels like Tarasov won. He fucking _won_.”

Because Marcus is dead and you will never get a chance to make things right between you. Will never get a chance to apologise for all the hurtful words you have spoken to him. Or vice versa. It will stay like this forever. Unfinished. He will never know that you’re sorry and that despite you not being the best of friends, he was still someone you respected. Admired, even. At least back in the early days. Back when his and John’s abilities have seemed inhuman to you.

“He didn’t,” John’s quiet voice interrupts your troubled thoughts and you glance at him. But the man is not looking at you. His sad, dark eyes linger on the coffin. “Viggo might have taken lives, our friends, but we’re still here. We have to honour that. Not let it be in vain.”

You can’t help but scoff. Have all those years on the outside really made him this soft? Naive? _Both_.

“In vain...all deaths are in vain,” you remind him, your words overflowing with resentment. “Tarasov is dead too, and that _should_ make me happy but it doesn’t.”

Because now there’s just _nothing_. Tarasov, for his many evil deeds and misgivings, has been like an anchor to you for years. He has been a purpose and a drive. A need to become better, deadlier, more feared. If John had been Tarasov’s boogeyman, then you would be the most vicious beast on his chain. So much so that he would go to bed every night with a fear that one day that monster might turn around and bite _him_ instead. You’ve achieved that. The unease, the fear, his _death_.

Now what?

He’s robbed you of so many years. Has caused so much pain and misery. It feels like killing him thousand times over _still_ won’t be enough. It won’t bring back your parents, won’t erase Tokyo, won’t magically fix what was broken. You thought that it _might_. Figured that his death would be the key to finally knowing peace.

The last few days have proven that you couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

Now, Tarasov is just another ghost haunting you at every corner.

Now, you feel adrift, purposeless.

Beside you, John shifts and you feel his focus on you.

“I know. Me neither.”

His words are a mere whisper; nothing more than a frayed murmur of still too fresh, strangled grief that’s only made worse by the fact that he’s had to bury his wife, puppy, and oldest friend all in a span of few weeks. Your heart clenches when you look at him. His expression falters only for a second before he rearranges it back into that hard, unfeeling mask you’re used to seeing but that second of raw agony breaks your own composure.

“John, I—"

“I’m sorry—” he halts, his voice cracking with sorrow. He blinks up at you before his gaze goes to the ground. “I _miss_ her. It’s still...”

Still painful, still fresh, still a crushing weight that won’t ease no matter what you do.

You know it takes a lot for him to admit that out loud. John has always been withdrawn, mostly living with his emotions in private. It comes from years of living in a cruel world that uses any sign of weakness against you. For a moment, in the shining sun, you don’t see John from now. You see the John you knew. The younger version who would look at you with that look in his eyes. A look you could never decipher but made you feel more cared for than you could ever put into words.

“Don’t apologise,” you force out, your own words coming out a bit strangled. You hesitate before reaching out and taking his hand in your own. You let the resentment, the pain, the bitterness fade for a moment. In that instance, it’s simply about empathy for another human being. Your old friend. It’s about recognising the pain he carries and clearly struggles with processing. You wanted to punish him. Or you thought you did. But now that you’re faced with it…it doesn’t taste as sweet as you had hoped. Seeing his pain just feels as hollow as Tarasov’s death did. “You love her and it never quite leaves you. Death of a loved one. You don’t have to be strong.”

When your parents were killed, it had punctured a wound inside you so deep that it wasn’t until you met him that you realised how lost you’ve been. How you hadn’t been living at all. Tarasov had chained you to his side, and you had considered your life to be over. John reminded you that there’s _more_.

Once upon a time, he saved you without even realising it.

You stand, hand-in-hand, for a long time before he speaks again. This time, his voice is more placid, his control regained once again.

“You don’t deserve this.”

You can’t quite help your ironic grin, as empty as it is.

“We don’t deserve a great many things,” you remind him, your words mild, melancholic. “They still happen though.”

His fingers twitch and turn to wrap around yours more securely. Together, you watch as the casket gets lowered into the ground bit by bit.

You both know what it means to bury those you love.

What it means to lose and _lose_.

“Maybe—” he starts before stopping himself and you feel yourself frown.

“Maybe?” you prompt.

John visibly hesitates and you turn to look at him in surprise. He doesn’t hesitate often, if ever. “Maybe you could stop by the house sometime?” he wonders, and his words are cautious, his lips parted and expression guarded as if he’s expecting the worst possible response. “For a cup of coffee or tea. The dog was looking for you too. I think he likes you.”

You feel yourself swallow heavily. This might be an instance of tranquillity between you but it doesn’t change anything. Your initial swell of rage at his return has subsided, and you’re indeed far too exhausted both physically and emotionally to muster up much of an angry response right now. But the pain still exists, no matter how deeply buried. You can’t just up wipe the slate clean. But maybe—

_Maybe_.

Your eyes go back to the hole in the ground. Your thoughts go to Marcus. Marcus who _died_. Marcus who you will never see again, never talk to again. You missed the chance to make it right with him. And just how close did you and John both come to losing your lives only days prior? Too close.

Maybe it would be easier to let this go. Let this resentment and anger between you fade.

You don’t know if you’re strong enough for it, don’t know if you can or even _will_. 

But how will you know if you don’t at least try?

“I can’t promise you anything,” you murmur, feeling raw from the honesty of those words. You can’t promise him what he no doubt wants. Absolution. Closure. Some semblance of hope to hold onto. But all you can give him is a _chance_. 

“I know,” he says quietly in return and your eyes meet. “I’m not asking for anything else. Just...company, if you are willing to offer it.”

You gaze at him thoughtfully, caught between refusal and acceptance.

Caught between letting go and being in the present, or clinging to the anger that has fuelled you—rightfully so—for years. 

You think about it for a while.

“Okay,” you speak, at last, your voice thin. You give him a tiny nod before letting go of his hand. “Okay, _yeah_. I can do that.”

John doesn’t smile. He doesn’t show much of an outward reaction. But his eyes lighten, something like relief reflecting back at you. You imagine it means more to him than he lets on even if he doesn’t show it, and that’s fine. You don’t exactly expect him to dance around you in circles from happiness.

Your eyes sweep over the graveyard as the people around start to scatter. “And your car?”

He hesitates again. “I have a lead. Soon,” he reassures. “I don’t want more bloodshed. Just my car and then...”

Your eyebrows arch. John looks exhausted, and you suspect it’s not his healing wounds that are the cause of that exhaustion.

“And then?”

“And then, peace.”

Birds chirp overhead as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Peace?” you echo, your scepticism clear. “You’re going to broker for peace with Abram?”

John dips his head in a nod but doesn’t look surprised by your reaction. Perhaps he knows how it sounds. After the slaughter he has unleashed, it seems tragically funny that John wants peace now. But perhaps you are alike in that sense. The blood-thirst that had originally clouded your judgement has passed, losing its previous intensity. Now, only bone-deep weariness is left.

“Yeah. There’s been enough death in the last few days,” he notes, only confirming your thoughts. “I’ve had enough of it.”

_Enough_.

You’ve seen so much death that by now you consider it a constant companion. But how much has John lost? He needs time to grieve. Properly. Iosef took that from him and he paid the ultimate price for that. His life.

“And if he declares war on you?” you wonder carefully, knowing that in your world, that’s the more likely scenario. “You killed his only brother and nephew.”

Winston told you bits and pieces of what happened when the news came to the High Table. The Russians, predictably, were making noise. Calling for a hunt. Retribution. The only thing stopping them was the knowledge of who had committed this massacre.

John Wick is known better to the Russians than anyone else. Healthy fear and a show of strength from John’s part are the only things keeping them back. They know better than to make an enemy of the boogeyman.

But the High Table is…wary. Winston didn’t have to say it explicitly for you to read into his deeper implication. John’s return has been an unexpected turn of events. It feels like someone has taken a large rock and thrown it into a too still pond. The ripples of what happened less than a week ago are being felt across the globe. It still concerns you that what may come back in reply will only cause more trouble.

But your conversation with John has eased your mind. He truly has no intention of coming back. He hit like a hurricane, leaving nothing but death and devastation in his wake, and will now retreat back to the other side he has made his home.

Hopefully, with time, everything will settle once again.

“If he is as smart as you said,” he says and there is something frigid about his low words. “He will take the offer of peace and live on another day.”

Or die. It goes unsaid but the implication is clear.

The last of the funeral party disperses, and the diggers get to work as you both watch in silence. The first shovel of dirt hits with a resounding, hollow sound and it pierces right through you. It grinds into your bones, crushing whatever little joy you might have felt about Tarasov and Perkins being dead.

It’s too high of a price to pay.

“He was a good man,” you remark, thoughtful and sad. Memories of his snarky, biting comments come flashing through your mind like a used film reel and you can’t help but snort. “A _bastard_. But a good man. Let’s not waste it.”

John is already looking at you when you glance his way and he nods his head in agreement. But before he can say anything else, his eyes snag onto something over your shoulder, and you see the previous ease of his expression drain and harden into something else. He switches from man to hunter in a blink of an eye.

The sudden change in the air between you makes you straighten subtly. You don’t have many weapons on you—you came to a funeral, not a battlefield, after all—but you also have your _hands_.

Battle instincts wash over you, and you push back your exhaustion, your current instability.

Inhaling deeply, you slowly incline your head, sneaking a look over your shoulder discreetly.

For the second time that day, your muscles relax.

Standing in front of a too familiar white Land Rover is Ares who is openly glaring at John. She catches your stare across the graveyard, and her glare drops as she nods her head in a greeting with a slight smirk. On the other side of the car, and facing away from you, stands Roberto. He seems to be scanning the nearby area and the retreating people with the usual scowl he thinks makes him look more ferocious.

It does_._ To everyone but people who know him. Those that do are perfectly aware that his personality is closer to that of a golden retriever than a wild wolf. A _protective_ golden retriever but hardly a dangerous one unless provoked. He’s one of the very few you’ve never doubted when it comes to loyalty towards Santino. And you know—better than most—how hard it can be to work under the man. How demanding he can be. Perhaps that is why unlike most heirs, Santino doesn't have an inner circle.

He doesn’t trust people enough to rely on their judgement and council. Nor does he need it, according to him. 

“She’s a friend,” you reassure John whose expression, unlike your own, has not relaxed. “And I need to talk with her.”

Santino must have sent her to speak with you.

You have to hold back a sigh at that thought. Sending Ares as a bridge between you is a cheap move, but at least he knows better than to push and come in person.

The thought of Santino seeing John again almost makes you bristle.

You have no idea how a reunion between the two would go. But you doubt it would be anything good.

Ares is Santino’s tested and tried method because you never refuse her. Predictable but clever bastard.

Sighing, you turn towards your old partner and give him a quick, vacant smile. “I’ll see you around, Baba Yaga.”

He hesitates as if he wants to say something else but stops himself. He nods his head once, solemn as always, and you turn to go with one last look in his direction.

Cutting a straight line through the graveyard, you get to the car in a few minutes and your hands are forming signs before you even come to a stop.

_Why are you here?_

Ares only stares at you as if she’s questioning your intelligence.

_He wishes to speak with you._

“I have to work, Ares,” you bite out, coming to a stop before her. “I just buried an old associate of mine. I have other priorities _other_ than Santino as well.”

She sighs, clearly frustrated and even Roberto looks surprised but masks it quickly when you look his way. You’re glad that she only brought him and not the rest of her little pack.

_At least talk with him. He does not like it when you are angry at him._

“Then _maybe_ he should have thought of that _before_ putting you, himself, and everyone else in danger because he felt like proving a _goddamn_ point.”

Because that’s what it was.

The only thing it could have been.

Santino may have given you the word of old Camorra but he must have known that if it had come down to it—

It wouldn’t have made a difference. In fact, it likely would have made an already bad situation _worse_. It was a show of power, of his pride, and perhaps it was ultimately about protecting you but it doesn’t change the fact that him risking everything didn’t make sense.

It makes you feel cold to the very marrow of your damaged soul, thinking about it.

_I will never abandon you._

But he almost _did_. Even if by some miracle both of you had lived, you likely would have been forbidden from ever seeing him again. And that’s the best-case scenario. It would have been as good as losing him forever.

They’ve become important to you. So important. The idea of not seeing him, or Ares, or even Roberto ever again chills you.

Ares seems to have arrived at a similar conclusion judging by her narrowed-eyed almost angry expression.

_It terrifies you, _she signs with a deep-set frown_, the fact that he came through for you. Why?_

“Because I swore to myself that I will never be the second choice again,” you choke out because you would like to think that she’s one of the few who can truly understand. Because she knows how badly you suffered. She knows Santino—is one of the few who considers him a genuine friend—and knows all about the depth of his ambition. “Because I—I’m not strong enough to...”

To love. To trust him wholeheartedly. Only to be dropped when it longer feels thrilling for him. When something better comes along. When someone offers him something he can’t refuse in exchange for you, your services, just _you_.

You’ve been picked apart and used over and over again.

Your life hasn’t felt like your own for so long now.

With Santino, you have always stood as an equal. That’s the one fact that no one seems to fully grasp. Because they don’t know about you and him and things you have gone through together. The blood you’ve shed and the bodies you’ve buried—the hard-won trust and reliance on one another that’s taken _years _to build. They’ve only heard stories about you, rarely exaggerated but often twisted to fit a different narrative.

If that balance were to ever change he would simply become another individual in a long line of people who’ve tried to abuse you.

You can’t have that.

“We both know what he is,” you tell her softly, and her expression falters, the heat in her gaze cooling a touch. “And I will not ask him to change on my behalf because I know he never will. Santino is Santino, and that’s _fine_. I like him just how he is.”

Even the selfishness, even the cunning, even the greed.

You’re hardly a saint yourself. In many ways, you’re _worse_.

Ares stands still for a prolonged stretch of quiet between you. The sun warms her, bathing her face in a soft light that in return softens her features, and you don’t quite understand her expression. She looks caught between understanding and exasperation. Her crisp suit makes no noise and neither does she but what she signs next slices through you like a hot knife, burying itself deep.

_He is not like _**_him_**. 

You go still. In the body, in mind, in standing rooted to the ground.

From the corner of your eye, you think you see Roberto wince. He’s been learning ASL for almost two years now so you don’t doubt that he understood exactly what was just conveyed to you.

Ares, as always, holds your gaze, unashamed. She’s too direct to not mean her words or feel sorry for expressing her thoughts on the matter.

Your own expression must be caught between empty and furious.

To compare John and Santino is—

Pressing your mouth into a rigid line, you look away from her, an angry pulse pounding your head with a strength that almost makes you dizzy.

“I will see Santino when _I_ want to see him,” you inform her stiffly. “Not whenever he feels bored and needs entertainment.”

With that said, you turn away from her but Roberto stops you this time, raising his hands in a pacifying motion. “He’s just worried, V,” the man phrases carefully, his brows furrowed. “We _all_ are—”

Your eyes cut to him sharply and he retreats at the look on your face.

Your shoes crunch against the gravel but you don’t look back at either of them as you walk away.

* * *

If there is one thing you truly do despise about New York City it’s the traffic.

Most days it’s horrendous, and today it seems to be even more awful than usual.

Your cheek has gone partially numb from leaning against your palm for almost twenty minutes. You stare outside the taxi window, counting your breaths inside your head. The taxi driver—a man in his 50ties with silver hair and a short, stocky build—seems to instinctively pick up on the fact that you’re not in the mood to talk. Or maybe he’s just an asshole. One way or another, you’re grateful for the quiet even if it leaves you to navigate the scary landscape that is your mind.

Your previous minor headache has now transformed into a full-blown pounding monstrosity and your eyes water from exhaustion. You haven’t slept in…too long. Maybe two days. You fully expect yourself to collapse on the hotel bed the moment you get back to the Continental. There are only two blocks left till you get there but you’ve been stuck in this traffic for ten minutes now, unmoving.

_He is not **him**_.

The memory comes unbidden and makes your fingers curl into fists.

Of course, they’re not.

They’re so different it’s staggering.

But it’s easier to turn away, to run away from any possibility of happiness because it may lead to pain again. The darkness of your past still clings to you. So many wrong moves, so much shame and failure.

You still feel a phantom of that helplessness when Tarasov told you your parents were dead. Weak. Always too weak and too helpless. A little girl playing at being strong. Something has been taken from deep inside you and that gap, that hole, still makes you feel stuck in that suffocating flat. Kishi’s blood still coats your tongue when you wake up from your nightmares. Sometimes—too often—it feels like no time has passed at all, and you’re simply stuck in that loop of despair.

Helpless. Always _helpless_. Unable to feel, to move on like other people would be able to.

Santino is not John, and John is not Santino.

But you’ve given one of them power over you once. Trusted and believed.

Where exactly did that lead to?

The taxi crawls towards the intersection and you jolt from your deep thought, wincing at the stab of pain that drums through your head.

You would prefer not to throw up in the taxi.

A sound of screeching tires rips through the air and your head jerks to the side—

The impact slams the taxi to one side, tires screaming across the asphalt as windows shatter on the driver side. Your head slams against the passenger door, your vision going black for a moment. Your ears ring, everything blurring in front of you. The driver slumps towards you, his head covered in blood and you moan low in your throat as you try to reach for him. Your seatbelt holds you back and you reach for it—

The passenger door flies open and someone grabs your arm roughly, jerking you back. The belt cuts harshly into your chest and neck, stopping you, and instinct takes over. The figure trying to drag you out screams when a blade clumsily sinks into their arm.

You twist, every bit of malicious intent happily on display and rip the blade out, letting the blood flow freely. The radial artery bleeds heavily if nicked and the male figure staggers back, trying to ebb the flow while levelling his gun on you. You can’t see his face over the black blur of his mask but that doesn’t matter. He’s pissed and in pain—not the best combo. Using the gap of time to your advantage, you hack the bloody blade against your seatbelt. 

“_Shit_.”

Finally, the material snaps, and you jerk to the side clumsily, a shot missing you by inches. Your blade sinks into the man’s chest but the gear he’s wearing stops it from reaching anything fatal like arteries, heart or lungs. The man staggers back from impact though, grasping at the blade, and you pull out your pistol—a sleek and easy to hide Glock 42—and fire only once. This close up, it would have been embarrassing to miss but it’s still a messy shot. 

The man falls to the floor but your victory is short-lived.

Bullets rain against the side of the taxi and you throw yourself out of the car through the open door. Your knees hit the asphalt with a creak and you roll to the side, curling to make yourself a smaller target. If the driver inside wasn’t dead from the impact, then he sure as hell is now. Your ears echo with the loud bangs made only more deafening by the surrounding screams of fleeing people. 

Shaking your head vigorously, you try to focus, snap back into _now_ because this isn’t random.

This is an ambush. 

And you’re outgunned and exhausted.

Your fingers go to your coat, pulling out the only gas canister you’ve taken with you due to low stock and hurry your fingers when the gunshots suddenly cut out. They either hope they got you, or they know they didn’t.

The vial slots inside and you shake the canister; a few sharp, graceless swings back and forth. You only have five rounds left in your pistol. Too few.

Footsteps crunch on the shattered glass on the other side of the taxi, heading towards you and you curl downwards, waiting.

A foot appears first, hesitant, and you slam another blade into the shoe, cutting right through it and feel the blade sink into flesh, muscle and bone. Another black-clad figure jerks in agony, their aim veering to the side and you jump to your feet, ripping the blade from the attacker’s foot and sinking it into their neck instead.

The body falls towards you.

You grunt under the additional weight but use the body as a meat shield, immediately aiming your pistol at another two approaching figures and shooting them right in the face with a savage sort of speed.

Three rounds left.

When ambushed only two things matter: speed and efficiency.

John has taught you that one person can withstand a tempest and _still_ come out victorious on the other side if they’re smart.

And you have done so again and again. This will be no different.

Someone grabs you from behind, and you careen back, your dead meat shield dropping to the ground when you’re harshly dragged back. Arms lock around your neck and you roll the slippery blade between your fingers before sinking it into the arms holding you. With a loud snarl, you rip the blade out and repeat the motion and _again_. Blood pours across your chest—hot and slippery—and their grip falters, giving you just enough leeway to twist your arm behind you and fire blindly.

Two left. _Shit_.

You turn sharply and sink the blade into your attacker’s neck to finish him off.

The body slumps to the side and—

An explosion rips through the air next to you, and you feel the shockwave of heat and smoke throw you back, your head slamming against the dirty pavement.

Everything goes white.

Your stomach coils and your exhausted body slants weakly to one side.

_Don’t lose focus. Get up._ **_Get up._ **

It sounds like a mix of voices, all of them anxious.

Your tongue feels thick and dry in your mouth, and the coldness of pavement sinks into your forehead as you try to roll over. Dizzy and drained and unable to make your muscles obey.

You haven’t slept in two days, hardly eaten or exercised, and your body strains under its natural limits when faced with your ironlike tenacity.

People scream in the far distance.

_Move. You’re making yourself into a target. Move._

You brace yourself on your palms, trembling, and gnash your teeth together till your jaw aches. Swaying, you hoist yourself onto your knees.

_Not again. Get up. Please, amore_—

You straighten, determined.

And feel a cold, hard barrel of a gun push into the back of your skull.

Your body freezes, tense, and you blink, clearing your vision desperately. Ice rushes through your veins when you realise that the explosion has made you lose your pistol. Your hands are terribly empty. You can’t reach for another blade before that trigger is pulled. 

“Well, well, who do we have here?” a filtered female voice wonders mockingly, clear French accent lacing her lovely voice. “Seems like we caught ourselves a _snake_.”

Something crystallises inside you; a shadow, an echo of Tokyo. Of that stillness that made you tear Kishi’s throat out without hesitation, that made you hunt and kill dozens when they made a sport out of hunting you.

That survival instinct that makes you brutal, that makes you terrible.

Mock a snake and you might just get struck down.

“You’re about to make a _very_ big mistake.”

You sound deceptively calm despite your injuries and mounting fury.

“Mistake? No. I think you will—”

Your eyes lift to the car in front of you and the blurry reflection of a figure behind you. On your knees, you appear small. Weak. A downwards angle is a major disadvantage when you have a gun pressed to your head as well.

But it’s either do or _die_.

You drop to the floor and drive your leg behind you. To put a gun to someone like that one has to stand close and the viciousness of your kick connects just as you suspected. You roll over immediately and reach forward to grab the hand holding the gun.

It fires.

You flinch at the loudness but it misses your head and you push yourself forward, adrenaline surging through your veins.

There is no hesitation to be found in you as you kick the woman in front of you again. This time in her leg and her stance falters, her gun firing twice more, both off-target. You use her moment of unsteadiness to drive your knee up and straight into the pointy end of her elbow.

Your knee explodes with numbing sort of pain but the satisfaction of hearing her olecranon fracture into little pieces is _more_ than worth it. An _open_ break. She will need surgery and weeks of healing, and that’s assuming the joint will ever heal well enough for her to use her arm again.

They wanted the Vipress.

They _got_ her.

The woman howls; a loud, screeching sound and you drive your fist into her delicate face, silencing her. You grapple for her gun, ready to finish her off like you did her buddies earlier, but before you can grab it someone slams into you, their knee connecting with your ribs.

The strength behind the kick jerks you to the side, and you hit the pavement with a shout of pain. You suck in desperate inhales of oxygen, terrified and numb with pain. Air rushes into your lungs, and with it dizzying relief.

Not broken. 

“You _bitch_!”

A male voice drills into your eardrums this time, and your head drags to the side. A tall, lean man hovers around the woman, his blonde hair a halo around his head. His features are sharp, almost aristocratic in their beauty. If the woman is beautiful with her large eyes and full lips, he’s a completely different breed of terrible sort of beauty. But his expression is twisted with such terrifying fury and madness that it knocks the wind out of you even harder than his kick did.

You _know_ them.

Or rather, know _of_ them.

The woman with her equally blonde hair snarls at you like a wild animal, and it’s by the tattoos on their faces that you recognise them.

They both have a heart etched deep into the skin of their left cheek in startling scarlet.

The Lovers.

French hitmen renown for their brutality and utter, toxic dependency on each other. Most considered them too unhinged to hire but those desperate and in need of bloody, dirty work to be done came to them first.

You’ve only heard stories about their blood rituals and the revolting way they handled the bodies they disposed of. The torture they delighted in, and the mayhem they unleashed on anyone who so much as scratched the other.

The man—what is his name; does it even matter—makes a sound at the back of his throat when he sees the severity of the female’s injury, and throws something directly at you. You roll out of the way, your ribs throbbing and you wince, your eyes trying to locate the object that you heard hit the ground not far from you.

_Beep. Beep._

Stumbling twice, you scramble onto your feet and dash towards the nearby car, clumsily sliding across the bonnet just as the explosion rips through the air with another deafening bang. The car windows shake from the blow, a few cracking and you crumple onto the pathway, covering your head to avoid any falling glass.

_Pyromaniacs. Right. Forgot about that._

“Get back here, you little rat!” the man shouts loudly, his voice cracking with viciousness.

Shots fly above your head, and you reach between your legs, pulling out your last blade from the security of your inner thigh. Your fingers tremble around the familiar cool weight, and you lick your lips shakily, tasting salt and blood. Your weakened muscles twinge and twitch from the overload, and you roll your shoulders, relaxing them as much as you can.

_No pain. Pain can come later. Feel nothing right now._

Flipping the blade in your hand, you go to your dress and slide the blade across your thigh, cutting the dark material clinging to your body. If it comes down to hand on hand you need the space and ability to use your legs freely. They’re far stronger than your arms—a rather annoying disadvantage Ares often uses against you in your sparring matches.

Distantly, you hear the female moan in pain and the sound of too many feet rushing closer towards you. The shots cut out and an eerie silence falls over the usually bustling New York street.

“Bring the snake to me!”

_How many?_

You lean down, peering through the gap between the pavement and the car, and count at least ten.

_Shit, shit, shit._

_Right._

Desperate measures, then.

Hurriedly, you shrug off your singed coat, pulling out your gas canister. You weren’t going to use it one or two guys. No, the more the _merrier_.

“You can’t hide from us, snake,” the man shouts, his voice wicked with a promise of delightful violence. “We’ll bleed you _dry_. Remove that pretty skin of yours piece by piece.”

_His accent is not as noticeable as his girlfriend’s_, you can’t help but think absentmindedly.

Usually, you would assume something like that to be an empty threat, but hearing the choked, furious bloodlust in the man’s voice makes you think otherwise.

You count your breaths, count in your head. Numb your mind to the pain raging through your side.

_Uno. Due—_

Sucking in a sharp breath, you throw the canister over the car with all your might. It sails through the air—not as far as you would have liked, and you recognise your mistake the moment you see the figures approaching fully.

The fumes explode from the canister. Perfect as always.

Except the soldiers are wearing goddamn _gasmasks_. They had known exactly what to expect, what to prepare for, and how to _counter_. At most, the fumes will cause confusion due to poor visibility and mild air passage irritation. Still usable since it will slow down their reactions but nowhere near good enough. Your paralyser momentarily locks down the airway enzyme functionality, usually without any irreversible damage.

But not if the victim only inhales a filtered version of it.

Panic is fleeting but stinging, and then you hurdle your mind to Plan B.

_Simple_.

You gamble. 

The blade leaves your fingers, finding its target in the closest attacker to your position and you follow behind instantly. The heavy vapour drowns the area and you hear the confused shouts that are followed by a couple of misguided, terrified shots into empty air.

Rules of survival say that you should _never_ part with your weapon.

A weaponless fighter is a dead fighter.

But your blade is only a distraction; another smokescreen for the real target.

You’re _fast_. That’s always been your greatest asset besides your poison.

You _will_ survive this. You _will_ make it. 

Your body crashes into the figure, and you rip the blade stuck in his armour and drive it in his neck instead, grabbing his gun. It happens in a span of seconds and you roll when the body hits the ground. In the confusion, more barrels start seeking you out.

But you know your work. You know the density, the deadliness of it. It is your shroud. It may not paralyse them but it will cloak you like silent death.

You can’t shoot their chests. Ineffective.

But their heads are targets _begging_ to be shot.

You straighten from your crouch and shoot upwards, the bullet knocking the nearest man in front of you straight in the jaw. Blood sprays and you shift out of the way. You grab his gun and others scatter, too worried to shoot in case they hit one another, but realising that you have no intention of coming quietly. 

The city is on your side though. No wind reaches the deep concrete jungle street and your vapour holds strong and thick.

With two guns in hand, you turn and _run_.

Confusion, chaos, and two dead. It will buy you precious seconds of a head start.

You’re proud but not _stupid_, and not about to risk your life when you’re at such a disadvantage and running on fumes.

The Continental is a holy ground of your world. Your one and only safe haven. No one can touch you there or risk the wrath of the High Table. Your only hope right now.

There’s only a matter of getting there.

You tear through the street, ducking every once in a while and zigzagging just in case any more explosions are aimed your way.

As if that thought conjures a response, a custom made explosion sails over you and hits the ground ahead. You throw yourself to the side and the bang that follows is ear-splitting. Ducking behind a minibus, you answer with your own gunfire but only fire three shots—two hitting and one missing. You know the explosion was about slowing you down, cutting you off. You can’t afford them catching up to you.

And then, even worse, you see the blonde male coming at you with startling speed, his teeth bared as he decreases the distance between you.

You fire but he’s too far away and ducks to the side too.

Your lungs are on fire, your side feels like it’s splitting at the seams, and the knee you used to break the female’s arm quakes.

Despite that, you swallow your inability, your weakness, and leave your momentary shelter, dashing in the direction of the Continental.

You’re close. So _close_. Just around the corner and then it’s a straight line across the street.

A shot whistles past your ear and you stumble, crashing against a car heavily before unloading an entire clip of continuous fire. Three more masked figures collapse dead, and you throw the empty gun to the side, aiming with another.

Most of the attackers disperse under the threat of bullets and you dash forward again, occasionally firing over your shoulder to keep them at bay.

The Continental walls appear before you, looming and imposing as always, and for a second you choke on sheer relief.

It adds a new spark of life into you and you sprint across the street, the stitch in your side making it hard to breathe evenly. The piercing red uniforms of the doormen greet you, and you take it two steps at a time as you run up the stairs. You crash against the glass door and jerk to the side when a bullet smashes a window right next to your head. Turning around, you fire at the blonde following you, only to be greeted by the horrific click of an empty chamber.

You throw yourself forward, lowering your head as another shot misses you and hear one of the doormen collapse behind you, groaning in agony.

_He’s not going to stop._

It’s a horrifying conclusion to arrive at, but you know in your gut that it’s the right one.

For injuring his lover, this man is willing to fire at you even while you stand on Continental grounds.

Slamming your shoulder against the door, you practically fall inside the hotel. The people in the foyer are all rod still, gaping openly at the commotion. But you pay them no heed, sprinting towards the nearest table where a flower vase stands and smashing it against the ground. You grip the largest, sharpest piece of ceramic, and aim the empty gun at the door where the blonde man forces himself inside with strength that makes the glass rattle.

His face splits into a beaming, pleased grin when he spots you and his gun rises immediately, aiming at you.

“Shoot me now, and you’re _dead_,” you gasp out, your words dripping with agony.

The blonde’s expression only appears more eager at your words, his dark eyes burning.

“I’m going to—”

“Can I help you, sir? A drink perhaps?”

You have never felt more relieved in your life to hear Winston’s smooth voice behind you. His crisp steps come closer and he passes you, coming to stand partially in front of you. He’s in a suit as always and appears completely calm despite the situation, his arms resting at his sides. Charon steps to your side as well and you almost collapse from relief right there and then.

“Move out of my way, pensioner,” the Lover snarls, his excited expression morphing into something dangerous, wild. “The snake is _mine_.”

You take a hobbling step towards Winston, your invisible hackles rising when the blonde doesn’t lower his gun.

Winston tuts, the sound irritated and displeased.

“Why I am sure that your grievance with dear Vipress is _more_ than founded, I encourage you to remember that _no_ business shall be conducted on Continental grounds,” he states, his words clear and direct; a polite warning. “So I will have to ask you to leave.”

“_I said get the fuck out of my way!_”

The man’s voice pierces through the deadly silent foyer and you go rigid, rising the sharp shard in your palm slightly. If he so much as _tries_ to hurt Winston—

“Mhm, very well,” the older man remarks, sounding bored. “Let me reiterate that in a way you can understand, then. Either you get out of my hotel right now or I will have you _removed_. In a body bag.”

A hush falls over the foyer and then a _shift_.

You don’t need to turn around to hear numerous weapons being drawn. This entire foyer would _gladly_ shoot the blonde for breaking the rules. In fact, the High Table might even reward them for it.

And more importantly than that, the Lovers are _outsiders_. You are New York. And every single person in this hotel would kill for you as you would for them. It’s a deep running respect and protectiveness for your own lot. New York governs itself. It’s a beast different from any other city and crime family out there.

It’s one of the most cutthroat cities there is.

But an attack on _one_ is an attack on _all_.

The New York Continental is your _home_.

And right now you feel its protective embrace once again.

That realisation reflects back on the man’s face, his expression twitching. He looks enraged in an unstable, worrying way but his gun lowers slowly.

“This isn’t _over_,” he whispers but the foyer is so quiet he might as well have shouted it. His face slackens, his skin glistening with sweat as his dark eyes drill into you. A brief, off-kilter smile twitches his thin lips and you control a shiver. “No. For what you did to my love...I will have your head on a spike, Vipress. I will wear your skin as a _trophy_. It was personal before but now—_now_, you made it _so much worse_. The Black Dragon is coming for you. You and Santino D’Antonio are _marked_.”

His fingers go to a pocket on his vest cautiously and he pulls out a slim, dark card. He doesn’t drop his stare as he licks it leisurely and drops it to the ground. 

Then he turns and wanders out of the hotel without so much as a backwards glance.

A breath rattles out of your lungs, hushed and strangled, and you hate the severity of exhaustion that wants to fold your knees right away. Charon reaches out as if to steady you but you jerk back, unable to hold back your instinctive response. He does not look offended by it but you still spare him an apologetic look.

Winston doesn’t turn around till the male Lover is gone from sight. He gestures for his staff to rush and check the injured doormen before he looks at you. His eyes sweep over your figure, taking in your terrible state and he sighs wearily, his gaze sharp and knowing. 

“Making new friends, are we?”

You don’t have enough energy left in your body to answer him—not even a joke or a jibe.

That seems to be all Winston needs to determine where you’re at emotionally, if not physically. 

“Come with me.”

* * *

The gauze tightens around your waist and you flinch, your jaw clicking.

“Do not move,” Doc chides for the third time in less than ten minutes, shuffling around you as he pulls on the material again. “It needs to be secure, you know that. Goodness me, you were lucky your ribs weren’t broken.”

“Yeah, lucky,” you mutter shortly, wincing again, and stare over Doc’s shoulder, trying to breathe. “Do you think—”

A commotion reaches your ears and you go taut, your mouth snapping shut at once. Your head snaps towards the closed door of Winston’s office as you try to determine what’s going on. Doc lowers your new shirt down and takes a cautious step back too.

Have the Lovers come back for more? What _now_?

“I apologise Mr D’Antonio but—”

“Get out of my way,” a too-familiar accented voice hisses, furious. “_Where is she?_”

“Miss Vipress is being seen to—”

“I asked you _where_ _is she_,” Santino snarls and you hear steps coming closer. “Does Winston only employ incompetent idiots, _hm_? Fine. Get out of my way. _Now_.”

The office door slams open with a bang and Santino marches into the room, his body coiled with rage. His charcoal grey suit flows like a dark cloud around his body, and he halts once he notices you seated on the sofa. His expression drops and he takes a second to observe you before he cuts the distance between you. From the corner of your eye, you see Ares step into the room after him, shooting an irritated look at Charon who hovers in the doorway.

But you can’t look away from Santino. Because he wears an expression of that terrible calm and that’s always worrying. He doesn’t seem to notice Doc when he comes to stand in front of you, and the older man politely steps aside.

“_Must_ you be this theatric?” you wonder calmly, but your voice sounds worn, lacking the usual teasing note. Santino says nothing. You breathe audibly through your parted lips before swallowing. You know what you look like: torn, bruised, bloody. It’s not too different from a state you were in seemingly a lifetime ago now. “You should see the other guys. They’re a mess.”

Still nothing.

“Say something,” you breathe, desperate but faint.

Santino’s expression twitches and you see the effort it takes him to keep his face unreadable. He reaches forward cautiously, his Rolex on display, and his fingertips brush against your chin gingerly, tilting your head slightly. His fingers are searing hot against your cooler skin and you hold back a shiver. His thumb traces a little patch of your skin gently, taking in the bruises and the scratches as well as your pinched expression with a rapt sort of grimness.

He asks only one thing, his voice terrible in its coldness. “_Who_?”

“The Lovers.”

It isn’t you who answers him. Your eyes swing towards the door where Winston now stands, his eyebrows arched as he observes the scene before him.

Santino doesn’t drop his hand right away.

His fingers linger as he continues gazing at you for another few moments. Then his hand drops and he straightens with that arrogant twitch of his mouth, his hands sliding into his pockets as he turns to face the older man. His open worry only moments ago is locked away and now only displeasure remains.

“The Lovers,” Santino repeats softly and tilts his head in consideration. Winston enters the room and goes for his bottle of brandy, pouring himself a generous amount. “Those French maniacs?”

“_That_,” you begin dryly, recalling their unhinged behaviour. “Is a very apt way of putting it.”

For once, Santino does not find whatever you said amusing. He only looks at Winston and his mouth twists; displeased, irritated.

“You allowed this to happen.”

Your lips part in shock. “_Santino_.”

“_Allowed_ it?” Winston echoes flatly, looking towards the Italian. “Why Mr D’Antonio I was unaware that besides being a Camorra Spare you’re also a part-time comedian.”

Santino takes a step closer and one of his hands flies out of his pocket. He points at Winston, enraged, and you exhale tiredly with a roll of your eyes.

“Then how do you explain her being attacked at your hotel not once,” he spits out, barely controlled, and it only thickens his accent. “No, not once but _twice_, hm?”

The older man observes Santino with an emotionless expression before taking a slow swing of his drink. “Mr D’Antonio,” he begins as if talking to a child. “Need I remind you that if it weren’t for the very rules that govern this fine establishment, then we would be looking at far more severe consequences. Besides the attack itself happened outside the Continental grounds.”

“I want their _heads_.”

Winston gestures vaguely with his hand. “Be my guest,” he deadpans. “Though it seems to me like it’s _you_ two that will be sought out by _them_. Care to explain _this_?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black card and shows it to you both.

An image of a curling dragon is imprinted deep into the card, its eyes slashed twice and snarling face smeared with two smudges of dried blood.

A calling card. A marking.

_You and Santino D’Antonio are marked._

For death.

Santino’s head snaps in your direction, his arm finally lowering, and you meet his stare evenly. In his wild gaze, you see a thousand things and your lips press into an even firmer line. You feel Winston’s eyes burn holes into you and fight to keep your own expression straight. 

“I assume you know what the Black Dragon is.”

His expression is stony and you don’t miss the scathing undercurrent in his words.

“Yes,” you say before Santino can no doubt offer something snarkier or provoking in reply. Your eyes connect again, an understanding—realisation—peering back at you. He _knows_ what this is. What it _means_. “They’re janitors of the High Table. We _know_.”

Chicago.

Everything, always, inevitably, circles back to Chicago.

“My, my, so it’s not ignorance but stupidity that’s responsible for this,” Winston shoots back at once, his tone and stare cutting, and you see Santino scowl visibly, fighting to control his temper. “My next question then, if I may, is to ask what exactly you have _done_?”

You _should_ tell him.

But Santino’s words from the warehouse attack halt your tongue.

_We broke his precious rules._ _He will inform those who have the power to punish you._

If you tell Winston, he will be duty-bound to inform the High Table about a breach of rules. This way, at least, you can keep him in the dark and if worse comes to worst, he cannot be held accountable because he doesn’t know anything. You abhor the very idea, but you have no other choice. Not with how recent the Tarasov incident is. 

You look back towards Winston again and give him a one-shoulder shrug, trying to appear casual, unbothered. “A situation gone wrong. We’ll sort it out.”

You don’t miss a flash of surprise that contorts Santino’s face briefly before he relaxes. 

For a good reason too.

When it comes to these matters, you _always_ take Winston’s side. Keeping things a secret puts a bad taste in your mouth.

A memory of a hotel room, a phone, a message, and a closing door pierces you suddenly, and you fiddle with your fingers.

“Honesty or nothing.”

You exhale sharply, your eyes flying to the older man’s serious face.

It’s an old agreement between you—one you swore to a long time ago. Either you tell each other the honest, unfiltered truth or nothing at all. _No_ lies. It’s the one rule that you’ve always abided by. It’s likely the only reason why he also trusts you with any information at all. Over the years, you have proven yourself to be worthy of his trust. What he tells you stays between you.

Trust, in your world, is the rarest form of currency. You both know that.

For a tense moment you simply peer at each other, and then you offer him a lifeless, “_Nothing_.”

His expression hardens and he places the card on the table, more forceful than you’re used to seeing, and laces his hands in front of him.

“The Lovers are rabid,” he tells you and his head tilts as he glances from you to Santino and then back to you again. “They barely abide by the rule of the High Table. Being marked by the Black Dragon is even _worse_. Whatever it is you two did, I suggest you sort it out quickly.”

“_Ah_, rest assured, Winston, I will have Camorra hunt them down like dogs,” Santino states coldly, his hand sliding back inside his pocket as he peers at the manager with a faint sneer. “There is no place left for them where I won’t find them. _È il mio cavallo di battaglia._”

Winston pulls a mock surprised expression. “Do you even _have_ that power anymore, Mr D’Antonio? To command Camorra on a hunt like that?”

Haughtiness melts away from Santino’s expression at that and he notably hesitates.

He doesn’t.

As an heir apparent he _would_ have had that power.

But as a Spare…

His influence now is minimal by comparison.

He may make a plea to Gianna if he believes his life is being threatened but there’s no guarantee she will offer help. Or care for that matter. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in when you see the way his expression crumbles, how those words hit exactly where it hurts. “They caught me off guard today. There will be no second time. They’ll be rotting corpses by the end of the week.”

Winston shakes his head, sighing, “You’re not dealing with your average street thugs, dear. You’re dealing with something that’s far above you.”

“And it doesn’t _matter_,” you say again, harsher, and he takes in the fierce twist of your mouth thoughtfully, considering. “I don’t give a shit who the Lovers are or what the Black Dragon wants. They come for any of us again and they die choking on their own blood.”

A brief glimmer of a smirk appears across the seams of Santino’s mouth but you ignore it.

Winston continues to watch you pensively but doesn’t look surprised by your venomous declaration.

“And your plan?” he prompts curiously, one eyebrow lifting in an open challenge.

Your eyes drift towards the man next to you whose green eyes are guarded when they meet your own, and you force yourself to smile. “The oldest in the book. _Bait_.”

* * *

The penthouse is eerily quiet as you stare at the New York skyline.

The dizzying display of lights twinkle in front of you, and you focus on them. Focus on counting in your head too. With every mental number, you inhale; small, controlled breaths that don’t strain the gauze wrapped firmly around your waist. Doc has been clear. Either you rest your overworked body or he will refuse to order you any new materials.

You didn’t think the old man was capable of blackmail, but then again, you both work with some of the most powerful people on the planet. To survive that, you need to be just as—if not more—cunning.

Santino has been on the phone for almost twenty minutes now, making phonecall after phonecall in the kitchen. The wild mix of different languages has blurred in your ears by this point and you let your mind drift as you stare outside.

You don’t know how you’re still standing.

Adrenaline is only temporarily useful and tends to leave you more exhausted than before. 

It seems like you have hit a stage where your body simply refuses to shut down. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re being hunted.

Why they attacked you first and not Santino seems obvious at first glance.

You’re the easier target.

But maybe you’re underestimating the Lovers and whoever else is behind this. They were so organised, prepared—they’ve _studied_ you. Perhaps the reason for such a focused effort to catch you off guard is because the exact opposite is true.

They consider _you_ to be the deadlier of the two. 

Your tongue runs unhurriedly over your teeth, and you frown at your blurry reflection. Copper burns your tongue, and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, reminding yourself that it’s not _real_.

You’ve brushed your teeth and tongue three times but the taste of blood still won’t fade.

The skin on your neck tingles suddenly and you rub your hand against it, wincing at the sensitivity of it. You had scrubbed your shoulder and neck raw in the shower, wild with desperation to get the blood off your skin.

You could have stayed holed up at the Continental.

But hiding is not how you overcome your enemies.

No, you plan on finding them. Wherever they are.

Neither Santino nor Winston appeared too enthusiastic about your plan but they couldn’t argue your logic.

If the Lovers or the Black Dragon want you and Santino, they will have to come to _you_ and collect.

No rules apply out in the open. For _either_ party.

Forcing your mind to focus on that line of thought, you consider your options.

“Chicago, then.”

You blink out of your stupor, looking over your shoulder at Santino who approaches you leisurely. His suit jacket is off, leaving him in only a shirt and a vest but something about his gait worries you.

He reminds you too much of a caged animal.

For a man like him, being hunted—_challenged_—like this is insulting. You can feel the restless energy rushing through his veins from across the room.

“Chicago,” you agree lightly, and you stare at each other for a tense minute. “But why _now_? Why wait so long?”

That’s the one thing that’s been tripping you up. Every time you think about it, that’s the one fact that doesn’t seem to make any sense.

After Chicago, you both waited for _months_ to see if anything would come of it. When nothing did, you both assumed that luck had been on your side. But what was it that Winston said? Luck always runs out?

Still, waiting almost four years seems a little extreme when on a quest for revenge.

“Oh, I have theories, cara,” he says but appears too distracted. His lips part and he comes to stand in front of you. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Doc gave me stuff strong enough to numb a horse. I’ll be fine. You know I had worse while sparring. And theories?”

But Santino doesn’t look reassured by your words. He focuses on your neck and your hand drops away.

He clears his throat and glances out towards the city.

“Whoever is behind this likely waited to see if I would become the next head.”

_Oh_. It _would_ make sense.

Camorra is _power_. Camorra is the second seat at the table—one of the oldest, founding families of the High Table. Their power is immense. Very few measure up. As a head, Santino would have been a near-impossible target. He could have unleashed hell with a snap of his fingers.

“And I believe that the reason they did not attack you sooner, amore,” he begins shrewdly, his eyebrows furrowing, and you read the fury there. “Is because of Tarasov.”

You let his words sink in and look away, nodding your head slightly. “Of course,” you mumble, and it feels ridiculously obvious now that he’s mentioned it. “I was Tarasov’s most prized possession. He might have sought out retribution if I mysteriously died. Not to mention the fact that the Russians have two seats at the table. They might have demanded that the Dragon is held accountable. But if I’m not attached to anyone…then my death is a clean sweep. No consequences.”

He nods and you exhale deeply, your head dipping tiredly, and he steps even closer.

“They will not touch you,” he states firmly, quietly, and his fingertips hover over your neck. His expression is strained and you reach out, pressing your thumb against the deep, harsh line between his brows. His frown eases immediately and a slight grin twists your mouth, faint but teasing. Your fingers drop away but his own hand catches yours and he presses your fingers to his cheek instead. “Are you still angry at me?”

His question is nothing more than a faint whisper, his gaze as heated as it is guarded, and you shake your head.

“No,” you tell him frankly. “But I do want to know why you did what you did.”

He presses into your palm, even while a sardonic smile twists his mouth. “You would have me weak before you, amore? Hmm? Is that it?”

“I would have you honest.”

The fingers holding your own to his face trail upwards, and he takes your forearm, pressing a lingering kiss against your inner wrist. Something inside your chest sparks to life at the heat of his lips on your skin. He holds your gaze the entire time and for a split second, you see his eyes flicker down. Down towards your lips. It only lasts a second before he blinks, and then his attention drifts back to you. He lowers your wrist from his face but doesn’t let go of your hand.

He regards you seriously, his hesitance clear before his lips finally part.

“All my life,” he begins, his voice thick with…_something_. Something that you can’t put into words but his tone, the look on his face, all wrap around your heart like a fist. “I’ve been told that I was born to rule Camorra. That it's my only goal and purpose in life. That like my father and his father before him, I will rule an empire. That I had to prove myself _worthy_ of it. Oh, amore, you know very well how I _obeyed_. I killed, cheated, stole, slept and lied my way through every problem. There were no rules and no price too high to pay for power.”

He pauses and you stare at him as he swallows, working his jaw. His lips twist again but it’s not a smile, not quite. There is something raw about him like this, all vicious whispers and raging eyes.

“_Ah_, yes. I would have bled this world if it had meant getting that seat because without it—”

He breaks off and your lips thin with silent understanding.

Because without the seat, he feels like a failure. Like everything he’s done in his life has been for _nothing_. It’s a matter of adjusting to life after the goal—the dream—he’s been chasing for over thirty years is taken away.

Santino clicks his tongue and looks back at you. His green eyes roam over your features slowly and the look on his face—

“Then _you_ came along,” he remarks mildly, and there is something arresting—downright intimate—about the way he gazes at you. This man—this wonderful, _terrible_ man—who you’ve cursed, and laughed, and cried and bled with looks at you like you’re an answer to a lifelong prayer. Like it hurts to look at you but he still does it anyway. “Crashed right into my life, didn’t you, (Name)? And I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.”

His words are like hands around your throat.

They are _divine_, and they are _terrible_.

“_Santino_—”

“Hear me,” he insists, and his free hand comes to rest against the curve of your cheek; an anchor, a rope. “This is the truth you wanted from me, bella. And the truth is this: I lost the title, but I have no intention of losing you too. So, to answer your question from the other day…_neither_. I have no intention of choosing between you and Camorra.”

Because he wants _everything_.

Years ago, back when you first started working together on odd jobs now and again, you asked him what he wanted. Back when you felt nothing but mild disdain for him, his answer had come as no surprise.

“_I want everything_,” he had divulged to you through heavy cigar smoke and a devilish, self-assured smirk. “_And I plan to take it. One way or another._”

Selfish, cruel man.

“_Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they _**_find it_**_, you will never be loved like that again._”

Gianna had warned you.

You pull away from him, half-turning as his hands drop away from you, and glance back at him.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He never does anymore.

What, if anything, can you offer in response to that?

“We—” you choke on your words—on the excuses, the insecurities, the _lies_ that would be easier to tell—and clear your throat weakly, trying and failing to get rid of the lump there. “We should prepare…for…if it comes to war…”

“Call in your life debt.”

Something cold settles in the pit of your stomach. It washes away the simmering heat, numbs the quiver in your heart.

Your head snaps to him so quickly, you feel the awful sting of pain slice through your nerves.

“_What_?”

But Santino only stares at you with that uncompromising, stubborn expression. The heir of Camorra stands before you; all business and sharp edges, unreasonable.

“Go to him and demand payment,” he voices coolly and tugs casually on one of his shirt sleeves with a tilt of his head, all arrogance. “Get the infamous Boogeyman to do something useful for once. _Hm_? Get him to repay for all _you_ have done for _him_.”

“No.”

It comes out quicker and harsher than you intended. But the image of John’s grief twisted expression burns behind your eyelids, and you shake your head again. He’s out. It’s _over_. Let him live a peaceful life with his dog, away from all of this. You’re not about to drag him back into this life over your mistakes while he’s trying to grieve his dead wife and oldest friend.

Enough.

He’s had enough. There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

You would know.

Santino’s lips curve and he chuckles, breathless, but the look in his eyes is downright vicious.

“And why not, cara mia?” he demands, his voice almost melodic with its bitterness. “Why _not_?”

“He’s retired,” you force out but you can tell right away that for Santino it won’t be enough. He has resented John for too long for that to be valid reasoning. “He’s _out_.”

“Not good enough.”

Something flickers across his features then. A slow, halting thing that stills his usually animated body. His expression chips away till only terrible, focused intent remains. He closes the distance between you and reaches for you, for your neck, for the chain that rests against your throat.

“Don’t,” you plead weakly, and hurriedly wrap your fingers around his, halting him. He looks up at you, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “_Please_—”

He jerks the chain upwards, freeing it from under your shirt and the weight at the end of the chain slides down till it bumps against his fingers.

It’s so still that you can hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

You can’t _breathe_. It has nothing to do with the pain or the bandages, and everything to do with the calm emptiness with which Santino observes John’s ring resting on the chain.

He doesn’t look surprised to see it.

Almost like he _knew_. Perhaps he always has.

But how do you begin to explain it?

How do you explain to him that the only two precious things you’ve ever owned are always with you this way? Close to your heart.

The silver viper rests against his folded fingers and you grip his hand. “I—”

“Do you still love him? Is that it?”

His soft question seizes your heart.

“No.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“I wish…” he murmurs gently, and looks up at you, his gaze empty. “I _wish_ I believed that.”

He lets go, allowing the ring to fall back against your chest and turns to go.

Wanting to believe in someone _should_ be enough.

Wanting to love someone _should_ be enough.

But it isn’t.

_It isn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now you know what happened to John’s ring :D
> 
> as always, thank you so so SO much for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks etc. your support means the world, you wonderful people!! <33


	10. i am the violence;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then stillness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab a drink, snack, and get comfy because i'm dropping 16k onto you. enjoy!!!

“I have no intention of sitting around and waiting for them to attack again.”

Ares’ eyes slide from you to Santino who sits behind the extravagant breakfast table. He must have felt like eating out on the terrace despite the chilly temperature outside. The warmth of the sun is the only reason this frigid wind is bearable.

For a man who often complains about cold weather, he seems fine making exceptions whenever it suits him.

But there’s an edge about him today that’s impossible to miss.

He seems distant. Like something is preoccupying all of his thoughts, and you know that you are likely the cause of it.

Last night sits between you like a ravine and it’s unsettling.

You know what he must have felt seeing that ring. But it’s so hard to properly articulate what that ring now means. John has always meant so much to you, and his present was the first you received after your parents’ murder. Certainly the first of such value. It has always mattered more than you could ever put into words. In truth, it’s always been about _more_ than just your feelings for him.

Back when he first left, that ring had been the only thing you had left of him. You had no photographs, no voicemail messages, no notes, _nothing_. One day, John had been _everything_ and then he up and vanished like smoke.

You had clung to that ring like a tightrope for _weeks_. Your only emotional anchor as you tried to nurse your broken spirit back together.

Years later, it’s _still_ important. Even if it now represents something different to you.

Santino says nothing to your curt statement, lifting a glass of rich, red wine to his lips as his attention stays on the New York skyline. He doesn’t look angry; not in the way he often does, at least. That burning flame that rages on and on. _This_ is something _else_. This is an eerie reminder of that night when he came to you after finding out he’s been made the Spare.

Seeing this stings more.

You’ve woken up after sixteen hours of sleep to a silent penthouse which had set off alarm bells inside your head. By the time you tracked him down, Santino was already enjoying late breakfast—calm and collected as always—and not at all like he’s been marked by the Dragon itself. Like he wasn’t currently hunted by the High Table’s henchmen and two psychopaths.

Normally, you might have written it off as arrogance. Since with him, it often _is_.

Santino is still Camorra. He’s grown up believing himself to be untouchable. But not _entirely_. Camorra has been its own cage too. A tight, suffocating cage. He’s told you as such. There has never been a choice, not for him. He was born into his role. Either you learn to make it work or—

_Or_.

There’s only one escape from a life like yours.

You shift in your seat, toying with your glass of juice absently.

Ares picked up on the tension between you almost immediately, and you don’t miss her curious, pointed stares in your direction. For another few minutes, you sit in uncomfortable silence.

He invited you to join him as always but you can’t help and wonder if—for the first time ever—he’s done so out of politeness oppose to a genuine desire for your company.

_That_ thought stings even more.

But you also know how much it hurt to see that ring.

“My men have searched the city,” he finally speaks, serious and smooth, and his light green eyes find your own. You exhale softly when your eyes connect, the weight of it an almost physical touch. Something shimmers deep in their depths; something that coils your stomach into knots as you fight to keep your expression straight. He simply gazes at you over his glass of wine, searching for something. “They haven’t found them, _amore_.”

He practically purrs the endearment and you break the eye contact between you.

“No offence to your men,” you quip back swiftly, feeling unsettled. “But they don’t know this city that well. But I know individuals who _do_.”

“Hmm, you want to involve someone else now, is that it?”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. The bite of finely laced irritation woven into his low baritone. This is not like last night. What he had demanded then had been too much.

John—

Perhaps that’s exactly the problem. John, as always, stands between you. He always has, and in more ways than one.

“I may be proud,” you start, and there is something equally as tart in your own voice. “But not to a point of stupidity. If I need help, I don’t find it _beneath_ me to ask for it.”

A jab. A fully intended and purposeful jab at his ceaseless pride. That damned D’Antonio pride that he always fails to contain. Just like his father. You can’t help but wonder how he would take it—if you told him as such. If he would take the comparison as praise or an insult.

Santino doesn’t bite though. His expression remains cool, composed. He’s heard—has been called many times—far worse.

“Wise words, cara mia. _Bravo_.”

The air between you practically crackles.

Ares leans her chin in her palm, her eyes sliding back and forth between you with feline grace. She looks caught between amusement and exasperation.

He doesn’t say anything else and the gust of wind disturbs the table cloth, making the cups tremble in their saucers. His stare burns that vivid colour that hides everything and nothing and you exhale sharply. 

“_Fine_,” you declare tightly, rising to your feet abruptly. “Keep searching and I’ll be back by the evening. She’s too injured for them to run now, and from what I’ve heard it’s not their style, either.”

No, the Lovers with their lovely faces and terrible fury are known for making a sport out of hunting their opponents. They are the type to obsess until the subject of that obsession is left in tatters. Usually—if the stories about them are to be believed—that’s _all_ that’s left.

“Take Ares with you.”

Not an order but it’s a close thing.

You feel yourself bristle.

“I need to handle this alone,” you bite out when your eyes clash, and the heat between you is almost tangible even with the freezing nip of the wind. “This particular individual doesn’t like strangers.”

But Santino doesn’t drop it so easily.

“You were attacked yesterday. _Injured_.”

He blinks, but you don’t miss how his voice catches on the last word. How his composure cracks just so. It softens your heart a touch—just a bit—because you imagine what he would have felt, hearing that information. An ambush. Multiple dead. The destruction it wrought.

He was frenzied with worry yesterday. Perhaps the most undone you have seen him in a long, long while.

“And I’m _fine_,” you stress because you have to because he needs to hear it even if he doesn’t believe it yet. “The longer we delay, the more time we’re giving them to retaliate. To plan.”

You’re right and you know it, and he knows it too. Which is the only reason why his expression relaxes after another few beats of tense silence. Ares is still watching you both, silent but observant as always, though her eyes almost sparkle with a knowing light.

His gaze drops and he lowers his glass of wine back onto the table.

“Very well,” he murmurs and rises to his feet as well. “Let me walk you to the door, at least.”

You try, and fail, to mask your surprise. He’s not a servant. He’s the owner of this space. It’s considered an honour by Camorra’s standards. If anyone in the ruling family greets you at the door or sees to your departure. It marks one as an esteemed and valued guest.

Your eyes flicker to Ares for a second but the other woman is already looking in your direction, and you see her smother a grin at your surprise. She stretches in the sun and shoots you a wink as Santino passes you, lingering for a second for you to join his side.

You leave the chilly terrace, trail downstairs, walking wordlessly all the while. Silence, as always, is jarring when it comes from him. You’re used to the lull of conversation that always flows between you, regardless of the severity of it. Which only leaves you to wonder—yet again—how much damage yesterday’s discovery might have done.

A part of you is determined to wait for him to speak first as he always does, but this time it’s different. His gait is poised and self-assured as always, but his shoulders are curved in a stiffer line than usual. One that betrays him; his restlessness, his lingering anger.

Your resolve to wait lasts till you exit the apartment. But when he starts walking down the hallway towards the elevator, you realise that he has no intention of speaking with you _at all_.

“Santino?”

He pauses. Now only a few steps away from the elevator and turns to glance at you over his shoulder. You haven’t realised you stopped till the distance between you becomes apparent. 

“I know what you must be thinking,” you whisper, even though your words sounds strangled. You don’t know what he’s thinking, not really, but you can guess. “I wear that ring because it matters to me. I wear the only two presents I’ve ever accepted because they mean a _lot_.”

More than a lot. They mean everything. Even if he doesn’t realise it.

You move towards him, one cautious step at the time. His own expression is hard, and his eyes examine you from beneath tightly knitted eyebrows. It’s like he wants to say something but refuses to do so, and you’re unsure if you’re eternally grateful for it or not.

“I don’t want this to—look, I don’t want this to affect us or weaken us in any way,” you tell him, trying to push your voice into firmness as you come to stand in front of him. Your voice, despite the softness of it, seems to screech through the hollowness of the empty hallway. “Especially now. You’re prone to stupid ideas when left angry and unattended.”

He takes a step closer too, and then another. His hands are in his pockets but somehow that doesn’t make you feel any better. His eyes track over your features, lingering on the bruises, and you want to reassure him again that you’re fine—you’ve had far worse, and he knows this—but your tongue refuses to work.

“You do not have to worry, amore, I shall attempt to contain the ‘stupid’ until your return,” he says, his words almost teasing, even though his quiet scrutiny doesn’t let up. His eyes suddenly flicker upwards to meet yours and a slight, arrogant grin twists the side of his mouth. “Besides I have no plans to die any time soon.”

It’s a relief to hear that haughtiness back in his voice.

“Good. _Good_,” you repeat again, and feels stupid for doing so. He’s still staring at you and you search for something to say to stop him from looking at you like _that_. “They’re dangerous, and you know the Dragon has the numbers. It might be a good idea to stay somewhere else while I’m not around.”

Precautions. Always better than being unprepared. Winston’s wisdom.

He leans into you and something in your chest cramps at the closeness between you. At the hungry, simmering light in his eyes as he peers at you.

“I do not scare easily, _amore_.”

A loving caress made only lovelier by the depth of his accent.

You want to pull away, step away, walk away but—

You can’t. A small, traitorous part of you doesn’t _want_ to.

“Don’t start with the ego trip, please,” you murmur instead, an attempt to deter him perhaps but…but his eyes only glaze over as if… “Just keep your eyes peeled for once. _What_?”

You can’t take it anymore. That _look_.

“It’s _nothing_.”

A slow blink and he pulls back. But you see how he works his jaw, how the muscles in his neck keep jumping, how his fingers flex. Like he’s trying to rope himself back, contain whatever it is he wants to say. _Do_.

“Don’t do that. Don’t deflect,” you insist, though a distant voice deep inside tells you that you shouldn’t push him. It would be so much better—_easier_—to leave things as they are between you. Unsaid. Distant with a few sparks in between. But— “You know I hate it when you do that. Whatever it is that’s on your mind, just _say_ it.”

You regret your words the moment you speak them.

Not only because they make you into a hypocrite but also because it’s dangerous to give Santino such an opportunity. He might say something that could—and _would_—change everything between you.

But he doesn’t.

He practically grimaces. His body coiling with tension, but he keeps quiet.

You’re not sure which you feel more acutely, then: disappointment or relief.

Forcing oxygen into your lungs, you move to step past him, but he reacts first. His hand flies out, slamming against the wall and cutting off your path towards the elevator.

You freeze, caught off guard.

He breathes deeply; a loud, rattling sort of sound that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“You want to know what I’m thinking, hm? Is _that_ it?”

His voice is wrecked. Syllables falling from his lips in a breathless litany as he moves towards you.

You can’t help it. A step forces you back and then another. It’s the first time you’ve ever yielded him any ground but his eyes spark and devour at the retreat, and you have no idea what he sees on your own face.

Maybe—

Maybe whatever he sees doesn’t make _him_ retreat as it might have once. Instead, he draws even closer—closer to a point you’re a breath away and there is nowhere to run.

The hallway wall brushes against your back and his arm rests next to your head, still blocking your way. 

His lips part and his eyes journey over your features slowly, intimately, in a way that boils the blood in your veins. “I’m _thinking_ that I enjoy it _far_ too much when you worry about me. I’m _thinking_ that it’s unfair that you look so beautiful when you are angry at me. I’m thinking that I _hate_ the fact that you are afraid but trying to hide it. I’m thinking, amore mio, that I hate that ring _not_ because you wear it but because I believe you deserve so much better than him. You deserve _everything_.”

His head tilts and his hooded stare won’t let you escape now. Perhaps, after all this time, he’s been pushed too far. Has waited _enough_ and longed _enough_.

Maybe some reckless part of you doesn’t want him to stop, either.

Maybe that part of you—wild and wicked and ruthless as he is—won’t mind if he reaches out and tries to claim what you know he’s desired for so long. What that part of _you_ has desired, too—no matter how much effort you have put into trying to smother it, ignore it, kill it whole.

“And I am not ashamed to admit that it makes me jealous knowing you still care for him, even when I know I have no right to be,” he breathes, strained, his hot breath brushing over your parted lips and his words scrape against your bones. “But above all, _hmm_, above all _else_ I’m thinking just how _badly_ I want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath hitches and you know he feels it, hears it, because his own breathing is ragged. Like he’s trying—and failing—to keep his composure.

His free arm moves, and you feel his burning fingers on your hand. His eyes don’t drop away, your breaths mingling.

“But I won’t start with your lips. No, no,” he whispers, breathless with longing. His fingertips trail upwards slowly, touching and mapping your skin and another unsteady breath escapes you. “I would start with the palm of your hand, your arm…your _shoulder_.”

He leans closer, his nose brushing against the said shoulder and even through clothes, his touch tingles, burns. The smell of his cologne fills your nose and the heat of him is even worse as his next words tickle the curve of your neck. “Oh, how I desire to feel your pulse against my lips, amore. It has almost driven me insane, imagining what you taste like all these years. I would explore every inch of your skin first, _hmm_, and only then would I kiss you.”

His lips brush against your jaw; a brief, fleeting contact that makes your hand snap out and grip his forearm. A battle between wanting to pull him closer and push him away. Your arm trembles. Santino watches you for a moment, your foreheads almost touching, and whispers his next words to you like a secret. “Kiss you till those lips are tender and neither of us can breathe,” he mutters with a choked little laugh as his thumb ghosts over the curve of your lips. “I can’t _breathe_ with you around, do you know that, _hm_?”

Your arm stills. Still holding on but only that. 

His fingers curve against your face, tilting it towards him as he leans down.

Your mind is quiet as your eyes flutter closed, allowing yourself—for once—to just _feel_.

Santino lingers, breathing you in. Perhaps savouring the moment; the anticipation of the feeling that’s about to sweep everything away, including the two of you. 

He exhales suddenly—a pained, angry hiss—and it makes your eyes fly open. He presses his forehead against yours for a brief second before pulling back.

He looks angry. So _angry_. But not at you.

You don’t get to question him before he exhales through gritted teeth, “But not like this. Not like _this_.”

His fingers leave your face, drop from the wall, and he peers at you for a moment as he steps away. You wait for him to change his mind.

He doesn’t.

He looks so bitterly disappointed, but he turns away and walks back into the apartment without so much as a backwards glance.

The door slams shut and you flinch, coming back to reality.

Your heart is hammering in your chest so loudly you press your palm against your breastbone. Harder and harder, as if hoping to contain whatever is raging inside.

You stay slumped against the wall for another minute, composing yourself, and wonder when exactly your life became such a goddamn _mess_.

Green eyes, the heat of him, the smell, his touch grazing your skin—

_Fuck_, _fuck, fuck_.

_ **. . .** _

A loud clap greets you first.

“As I _breathe_, the mighty Vipress,” the Bowery King exclaims, expanding his arms like he’s announcing you to his court. “Freedom suits you, sweetheart. My warmest congratulations to you on the rather _unfortunate_ passing of our old friend Viggo. It was quite the little adventure to my understanding.”

A slight smirk lingers across your face, and you tilt your head in vague agreement.

The Bowery King grins, but there is nothing warm to be found in the gesture that’s all teeth and vicious sort of amusement.

The King hated Viggo as much as the rest of the city did, so perhaps you shouldn’t have expected him to be weepy over the _unfortunate_ passing.

His wording almost makes you curious if he knows what _really_ happened. But you don’t dare to mention it now. Or the fact that your so-called freedom is not official. The High Table representatives are yet to contact you and the delay is making you uneasy.

“Though I _am_ rather curious about what brings you here to my humble abode?”

_Humble_ is not how you would describe the King’s living quarters. Humble was the tiny Moscow flat you shared with your parents. The Bowery King sits on a mountain of luxury and organisation that puts him at the very top of New York’s food chain. The silken robe he wears is just a statement, a testament, that while he might rule the bowery, there is nothing humble or poor about the man himself.

Giovanni and Tarasov may have been rotten to the core, but at least they didn’t call themselves champions of the people while sitting in their luxurious estates.

They, at least, had the nerve to admit exactly how rotten and malicious they were without flinching.

You’re not sure if the same can be said about the man in front of you. 

“Your Majesty,” you greet flatly as you sit down in front of him. Earl stands beside you—a subtle warning—but knows better than to move any closer or touch you. Smart man. Your weapons have been removed upon entry but you hardly need them. “Freedom has been…exciting so far. So I think you know why I’m here.”

The King hums, long and loud, as he considers you. His head tilts from side to side; thoughtful, knowing.

“Perhaps I do,” he agrees mildly. “You don’t look so good though. A little _Lovers_ spat from what my birdies told me.”

You almost roll your eyes.

Why are people in your life so damn theatrical?

Instead, you ask him a simple, “Where are they?”

The large man folds his hands on the expensive table separating you and chuckles. A deep, rumbling sound that shakes his entire body as he looks at you with a biting smile.

“What makes you think I _know_?” he wonders, glancing towards Earl as if the man might shed some light on the matter. “After their little failed ambush, they ran. A wise decision. _The Lovers_ though. Ooh, that’s gotta be bad for your health, dearest. They’re _mean_ little suckers from what I’ve heard.”

Yes, they are. You’ve been digging for information from the moment you left Santino’s penthouse, calling in old favours and people based in Europe who may have more insider information on the two.

To defeat your enemy, you must know them.

The Lovers had the edge on you the last time you met.

There won’t get a second shot like that.

But all and any information you’ve gathered so far only confirms what you’ve only vaguely heard about in the past. They are more than dangerous, or cruel, they are _obsessive_. They hound and hound their prey till they get what they’re after.

Pissing them off wasn’t in your best interest but it’s too late now. 

“You know where everyone in this city is at any given moment,” you say with a knowing tilt of your head and a flat stare. Today is not a day for games. “So let’s skip to the part where you stop playing coy and tell me what I need to know.”

Oh, it’s a risk. Using that tone with him. But you did not come here as a beggar. Not today.

The Bowery King doesn’t disagree because that would be a blatant lie on his behalf. But he doesn’t answer, either. He spends another few moments simply observing you—as if weighting something inside his mind.

“And what’s your plan?” his question is borderline mocking. “You’re going to just waltz into whatever hole they’re hiding in and then what? Unleash your poison? Didn’t work out too well last time, now _did_ it?”

You don’t particularly want or care to divulge your plan to him. The fewer people know, the better. Besides how you approach this depends entirely on _where_ exactly the Lovers are hiding. And you know they _are_ hiding. They don’t leave their prey alone till it’s dead. You and Santino are too conveniently _here_ for them to ignore. They underestimated you but you doubt they’ll be making that mistake again, either.

“Leave the semantics to me,” you state calmly, staring him down. “I just need their location. _Fast_. Before they have time to plan their next move.”

The Bowery King nods, looking towards Earl again with an expression that seems to say ‘_see_’.

“Yes, very sensible,” he notes, amused. “Anything else you would like with the location of two psychotic killers? Some fries perhaps?”

Exhaling, you lean back in your seat, tapping your fingers impatiently against the armrest.

He wants to play with his food, does he?

Thinks this is a _joke_?

“What is it that you’re so fond of saying?” you pose coolly, your expression turning remote. “_You owe me_?”

A slow smile blooms across the man’s face; unapologetic and bordering on cruel.

“Oh, yes,” he drawls, his lips pulling back into something sharper and he shrugs once, nonchalant. “Dear old _Zach_.”

“How is he nowadays?”

A careful, measured question.

You watch him as he sighs, rolling his eyes as if he’s working hard to recall the information.

“Seems like the poor man succumbed to a mysterious illness,” he replies simply with a careless little shrug. “Last I heard.”

Yes, thanks to your poison.

It’s quiet for a beat and you hum thoughtfully, looking towards the light that filters through the windows.

_How interesting_. 

“Tragic.”

“Isn’t it _just_?” the King voices sharply, leaning closer, his previous smile gone. He stares at you for a long minute before his features break into another slow smile. “Very well. A favour is a favour. I’ll get you their location.”

You don’t thank him. Because there is nothing to thank for. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just wasting your time. He could have agreed right away instead of this wordplay that—for once—you have no patience for. It’s dangerous to play like this with a man of his influence. He’s still New York. He has his own role to play and he plays it well, keeping order on the other side of the coin. But he’s also growing more and more powerful and brazen. Something to keep in mind and monitor, you conclude, standing to your feet.

“And so the scale is tipped even once again,” the Bowery King declares loudly, inclining in his extravagant seat. “I look forward to doing business with you again very soon, Vipress.”

You look at him over your shoulder.

“Hopefully not too soon.”

The Bowery King’s loud cackle follows you out.

_ **. . .** _

“You still haven’t given him a name?”

John pauses and gives you a cautious sideways look.

“No.”

“Why not?” you can’t help but demand, watching as the dog happily comes running towards you both. He looks so thrilled that you can’t help but crack a smile as he chews on his toy, dropping it at your feet.

It’s gotten warmer. The afternoon sun could almost pass for pleasant as long as the wind didn’t rattle the trees too hard.

It had been an impulse, coming here. You had no intention of doing so. And with everything else going on, it was probably not the best idea, either.

But you also needed space, perspective, time—to gather yourself, plan, think.

Your knee and ribs twinge when you lower yourself to the ground in order to grab the toy and it’s a good reminder. A reminder that yesterday had been luck and nothing _but_ luck.

_Luck always runs out_, Winston’s wry voice reminds you and you suppress a sigh.

The Lovers. The Black Dragon. Chicago. Things always circle back around.

But this time you will not go into a situation blind.

The dog nudges his wet nose against your hand with a pant and you pet his head, your slight grin growing.

“You should name him.”

Your fingers still, and the dog’s tongue lolls to the side, his tail wagging excitedly while he waits for you to throw the toy again.

“Me? He’s _your_ dog.”

It’s your turn to sound wary, cagey.

Perhaps because it implies too much—gives you power and space in his life that you did not expect him to grant. It’s still startlingly clear that you’re both unsure how exactly you fit now. That there is this underlining tension between you that’s ever-present.

But you promised that you would try.

For yourself, not anyone else.

Because you need that clarity with John. Either you bury whatever still exists between you once and for all, or you try to patch up your old relationship.

“You were there when I got him,” he informs you bluntly. “That gives you…some rights.”

You can’t quite help your startled snort. “_Some rights_? Wow, don’t spoil me now,” you mutter jokingly, shooting him a look over your shoulder. You rub the dog’s ear again and make a contemplative sound at the back of your throat. “Hm, fine. You sure you want to give me this much power? What if I name him something really deep like…Cheeseburger?” you offer, and noting the slight whine and tail wag, add an amused, “Hey, I think he likes it.”

A brief glimmer of a smile appears across John’s face. “I would be elect to ignore it,” he deadpans dryly but his expression is lighter in that moment, empty of the weight he carries.

Suppressing a snicker, you narrow your eyes, “Huh. Now that’s just _rude_,” you point out equally as dryly and rub the dog’s head again. “Isn’t it, boy? Mean Johnny won’t even name you.”

You pick up the toy and the dog dashes forward, practically vibrating with excitement as he waits for you to throw it. You do. It sails far in the distance before falling heavily onto the grass and the dog races after it, carefree and happy. For a brief second, you feel almost envious of that happiness, of that freedom.

“What’s going on, (Name)?”

Your dim smile fades, and you turn to face him. He looks so normal in his casual, everyday clothes. Average. A normal man just living his life. You could pass him on the street and never know what he’s capable of—never know just how much people fear the mere mention of his name.

But that’s the thing about John. He’s always been a man of two sides. A man you loved and a man…a man you never got to know. Not really.

“What makes you think something is going on?”

His expression is drawn, serious, and he regards you with a look that doesn’t belong to John-the-Man but to John-the-Boogeyman instead. The look of quiet, lethal focus you once knew him so well for.

“You didn’t have those bruises the last time we spoke,” he notes carefully, and something icy lingers in his calm, critical words. “And you weren’t walking with a limp.”

So he noticed. Of course, he did. He’s John. Not many things slip past his notice but it’s easy to forget sometimes.

You sigh under your breath, looking towards the distant horizon where New York skyline touches the sky. Somewhere out there, your enemies await. Somewhere out there, they might be planning your and Santino’s deaths as you stand here playing fetch. It makes you restless. But there’s only so much you can do until you have their location and that, unfortunately, is not in your hands right now.

When your attention returns to John, he’s still standing in the same spot, silent and attentive as always. “It’s currently being handled.”

He doesn’t look reassured. “The High Table?”

You hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you tilt your head in consideration. “Not…exactly.”

“Is it serious?”

Astute as always.

“Yes.”

You aren’t sure which worries you more: the Lovers or the Black Dragon. Both are a threat; a too big, sizeable threat. But the fact that the High Table hasn’t gotten involved _personally_ is…telling. You’ve been mulling over the situation in your head and a lot of things either don’t add up or imply rather interesting things.

“Do you need help?”

Your eyes find his.

He stands before you—a phantom of a man—and you feel a stab of pity in your heart. Why does he offer something he can’t stomach to even think about? You wonder if he realises how obvious and plain it is to see on his face that the very idea seems to weigh on him. Eat at him from inside out. 

“You can’t help me,” you tell him bluntly and give him a meaningful look. “And we both know you don’t want to.”

Even if it would be nice. To stand with him again, to fight beside him again, to know that John Wick of all people has your back.

His lips part before he presses them back together again. He seems to control his first impulse reaction which no doubt would have been a vehement denial. “That’s not it,” he says instead but his voice sounds thin.

A slight, scathing smile tugs your lips upwards as you gaze at him.

Wind ruffles his dark hair and he looks younger with the sun kissing his skin, and bright afternoon light brightening his usually aloof demeanour. You’re glad to see it. He needs this peace, this quiet.

Maybe one day, you will get to experience it, too. Get to live the rest of your life like those sunny three days in Naples a year ago. Free of every worry, every fear.

It’s not that you want to leave this world you’ve made your own behind. You’ve suffered too much to be where you are _now_ just to abandon it. You’ve carved and tore a space out for yourself with teeth and hands bloody to retreat after victory.

It’s more to do with the fact that you want to breathe and actually _feel_ the freedom that breath gives you. To not be bound by anything or anyone that isn’t your own choice or making. 

“Isn’t it?” you wonder coolly, but your voice is empty of judgement or anger. “You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time. You got lucky. But if you do this now, you’ll be right back where you started. Is that what you want? Is it?”

“No.”

That’s exactly what you thought he will say. You wait for resentment or bitterness to hit but…

You didn’t come here with the intention of asking for his help. Looking at him now, you haven’t even expected him to offer it, no matter how reluctantly. You could demand it, of course. Santino seems convinced that you should. And indeed with John at your side taking the Lovers would be—perhaps not _easy_—but certainly less challenging.

But you know what it’s like, teetering on the edge and fearing that no one is going to help you and pull you back. Understand you. That someone might throw you deeper into the abyss for their own gain instead.

If you ask this of John, you will be the one doing the throwing.

If you ask this of him, you will be no better than Tarasov was with you. No better than even John himself was when he left, believing wrongly in the depth of your inner strength.

“Then trust me when I say that you’re better off not getting involved,” you inform him coolly, ignoring the way he clenches his jaw as if frustrated. Perhaps with himself, perhaps with the situation. “I’m respecting your decision to stay retired; as your former friend. It’s better this way,” you reassure him because it’s true. If you hope to rebuild, this is not the way to start, so you add a weary, “If I drag you back into this due to my mistakes…you will just grow to resent me.”

“I could never resent you.”

He says it so simply and with such quiet conviction in his voice that for a long moment you have nothing to say to him at all. Like it’s so easy for him; a fact of the universe that’s never going to change. It feels like he’s reached inside your ribcage and grabbed whatever is left of your heart, squeezing it in that powerful fist till it trembles.

A distant, cold part of you recoils at his words, at the softness of them, at the way he stares at you like he believes them wholeheartedly.

Your hands slide inside the pockets of your jacket as you half-turn away from him. “I should go.”

“(Name)—”

You pause briefly, frowning, and look up at him. “After I’ve dealt with this…I—I would like to talk with you. Properly. About everything,” you force out, your words stilted. “If we are to try and be friends again. If you even want to—”

John takes a step closer, his expression earnest.

“I would like that. My door is always open to you.”

Swallowing, you dip your head in an awkward nod, and with the sun warming your shoulder blades, you almost feel hopeful for the first time in a long while.

_ **. . .** _

The map rolls out across the large table, and you flatten your fingers across it, smoothing the edges.

The room is dead silent.

“Are those…” Roberto fades off, staring at the plans in front of him in clear confusion.

“Sewers,” you confirm with a slight dip of your head. “That’s where they’re hiding.”

The map is riddled with red dots and messy scribbles. The Bowery King had passed you the map with a derisive little twist of his mouth, wishing you a happy hunt through piss, shit and fat of this city. It took him less than a day to locate them though, so you couldn’t complain.

Ares stares at the map in open disgust and Santino’s repulsed expression is no better.

“It’s smart,” you admit, albeit reluctantly, as you trace your fingers over the paper. “The entire system stretches across 6,600 miles, including mains and pipes. They knew what they were doing. It’s a perfect place to stay off the grid but also make sure it’s easy to defend. They can have entry points watched at all times not to mention runoffs in case of an attack. It’s _smart_.”

“But they are pushing themselves into a corner, aren’t they? If they’re attacked, it will get messy,” Roberto points out curiously. “That doesn’t seem that smart to me.”

“Not if you don’t care about collateral damage,” you remark, unfazed, folding your arms over your chest. “Not if you’re like _them_.”

The large man in front of you falls quiet at that, but you can see him frowning even under his heavy beard.

“What did the Rat King demand in return for this information?” Santino asks from beside you and you still. “I assume he did not simply give you this map out of the kindness of his non-existent heart.”

You risk a brief look his way before dragging your eyes back towards the table, shifting in your spot. It’s rather difficult to look at him after your earlier…encounter. Hard not to recall his smooth, accented voice in your ear and the scorching heat of his touch.

When did you lower that wall between you so much that such a simple moment manages to get under your skin like this? You have known him for a long time and it’s hardly the first time he has spoken to you with that breathless intimacy in his voice. Hardly the first time he’s touched you.

Hardy the first time you’ve almost kissed.

What, exactly, has changed between you?

“Nothing,” you reply shortly, trying to keep your voice even. “He owed me.”

You feel the heavy weight of Santino’s scrutiny focus on the side of your face but he doesn’t comment further. After another beat, he leans over the map. His long fingers trace over it, his golden Camorra ring gleaming in dull light as his eyes trail over the paths and circled spots.

“How many?”

You step closer, falling beside him, and push the awkwardness away. _That_ can wait till later. You have business to attend to first.

“At least fifty,” you say, and point to a spot on the map. “They mainly use this Southern entrance on the outskirts of the city and the King’s men observed them use another three for exits and moving supplies. Here, here, and here.”

You point to each spot and Roberto leans over, curious. Ares does the same a moment later and the four of you consider the large parameter in silence. Not the best thing for this type of job because it stretches out your own numbers too thin.

“Fifty,” Santino mutters, pensive. “Less than I expected.”

“They weren’t able to give me the exact numbers but that’s the minimum we should expect,” you inform him, and he glances at you. “It would make sense if they initially took smaller numbers to remain invisible. Smaller numbers also require fewer resources. It’s rather interesting that the Dragon didn’t just unleash it’s full might if they want us dead so badly though.”

Santino straightens, his eyes narrowing. He braces his hand on the table but his attention is solely on you. “Ah, you think they are hiding.”

“Don’t you?” you pose calmly and judging by the calculating gleam in his eyes, you already have your answer. “An ambush? Hiring someone else to do the dirty work for them? Why bother with the Lovers at all? Why not just go straight to the High Table? Which must _mean_…”

“Whoever it is doesn’t have proof.”

So he’s been thinking about it too.

For a moment, you simply peer at each other. “Which must then mean that whoever is currently running the Dragon is either unaware of what happened in Chicago, or they _know_ but won’t risk a direct fight. They’re using the Lovers as a scapegoat, a cover. Do we know who is running the Dragon currently?”

“No,” Santino replies and you hear the poorly veiled resentment there. “Only the members of the High Table are in contact with the Dragon. Sister dearest will know once she officially gets the seat. They prefer to, _hmm_, keep things private after the last time.”

Santino’s scorn is clear and you don’t blame him.

Yes, the _last time_…

Roberto and Ares are quiet. Neither has pushed for more information, even though you know they want to. Ares knows enough but even she hasn’t demanded more. Whether it’s out of trust or loyalty, you don’t know, but you appreciate it all the same. As far as they know or care, someone is coming for you and Santino. Coming for one is coming for all of you. That’s good enough for them.

Your arms loosen and you rotate your shoulder to alleviate the ache in your ribs before glancing back towards the map with a sigh. “I will take the Lovers myself,” you announce quietly, resolute. “We need at least one of them alive.”

“Absolutely not, cara—”

You interrupt him before he can no doubt make a spectacle out of your differing opinions again. “I’m not stupid enough to go alone,” you reassure him, scrunching your eyebrows at him in an almost insulted manner. “Ares and I will take point. Roberto and at least a few dozen of your men will be there too. But the Lovers are another league. It _has_ to be me. Ares will be my backup.”

But his expression is surprisingly unyielding, surprisingly grim. “Then I am coming as well.”

Something in your chest twists.

“Absolutely _not_,” you snap immediately, and shake your head when his lips part to argue. “The last thing we need is to have our focus divided. If you come, the only thing the three of us will do is worry about keeping you safe. And I _know_ you’re a good shot but we can’t afford to present such an obvious opportunity for the Lovers. You know I’m right. And _don’t_ look at them,” you add when you see his attention go from you to Ares and Roberto. “They work for you, they can’t refuse you.”

Santino scowls, irritated, but considers your words. “Very well,” he says, at last, reluctant. You’re surprised he’s not pouting—yet. “But I will still be overseeing, cara mia.”

“I figured you’d say that,” you shoot back, your words mock sweet. “Minimum six guards and you’re armed the entire time. Let’s not make it _too_ easy for them, shall we? They’re after you too.”

Which is why you must focus the Lovers’ attention on you. Why they have to be so busy fighting you, they don’t even remember Santino exists. An image comes crawling through your mind, then—an image of the male Lover with his thin, long fingers and wrapped, awful smile squeezing his hands around Santino’s throat. The crack of bones. A dull thud.

Your jaw clenches so tight, you can hear a distant buzzing in your ears before you banish the thought away.

No. Something like that will _never_ happen. You would never allow it. Neither would Ares or Roberto.

Still, the fact that he the even suggested going…

He’s is not a fighter—has never been one—and he hates getting involved if it’s anything as high stakes as this. Which makes you wonder why it’s _now_ that he even considered doing so.

Is it worry? Fear that something might go wrong? He knows what you’re capable of so you know it has nothing to do with him looking down on your capabilities and yet—

Santino raises his chin, his expression relaxing slightly as the harsh curve of his eyebrows eases and he regards you with a slight twitch of his mouth. Something changes in his expression; a minute shift that darkens his eyes and slows his breathing.

_I enjoy it far too much when you worry about me._

Your eyes skitter away from him at the sudden recall and you focus back on the map.

“They’re also pyromaniacs,” you remind the people in the room and clear your throat. “Experts from what I’ve gathered. I think we can safely assume that they will have the entrances rigged with explosives. It’s what I would do.”

“Stop any possible attacks and cut off exits, trapping attackers inside,” Santino assumes smoothly and makes a small noise at the back of his throat. His attention shifts towards Roberto. “Make sure the men have a copy of this map, and get eyes on all these entrances as quickly as possible. Guard rotations, numbers, weaponry. I want to know everything, is that understood?”

Roberto nods at once, clasping his tattooed hands in front of him. “Sì, capo. Consider it done.”

Santino inclines his head and turns towards Ares. “What are you thinking? Two teams? Three?”

You share a brief look before she turns towards the two men.

_Four teams. One for each entrance. We go through the main one. Hard to tell where the duo is going to be located_, she signs with a solemn glower and traces her fingers along the tunnels. _We should assume a safer central position. But the parameter is wide. Do we have any other information about the inside layout?_

Her eyes focus on you again but you shake your head. “They couldn’t sneak anyone in without someone noticing,” you tell them but lean over to place your fingers against the large cavity in the plans. “But this seems like a nice little spot. It’s far away from the main entrance, it’s open enough to house large numbers, and if they need to escape they can easily access all the different exits from here.”

To prove your point, you tap your finger in a circle where the exits are marked. “If we go in from the South, we send smaller teams to block off the other exits. They want to be rats hiding in the sewers? Let’s make them _exactly_ that.”

“_Ah_, they can’t blow all the exits, unless they want to trap themselves inside, too,” Santino muses and when you look at him, you’re unsurprised to see a slight smirk twitching the corners of his mouth. “The idea of them _rotting_ is a rather appealing one, I must admit. What are our numbers?”

He directs this question at Ares and she pulls a face. _Depends on the time constraint._

“As soon as possible,” you insist immediately and she sighs heavily.

_Then 3-0, at best._

_Are they at least good shot?_ you sign back and Santino makes a disbelieving sound at the back of his throat.

“Amore, I’m going to _try_ and not be insulted by that,” he mutters wryly and you fail to hold back your quiet snort at his incredulous tone. “Camorra doesn’t employ useless idiots.”

“Yet you complain about how incompetent everyone is _all_ the time.”

His mouth opens to no doubt grace you with a witty retort but he seemingly draws blank, making you suppress a smirk of your own.

“How quickly can you gather the men?” he demands instead, turning back towards Ares and the woman needs a second to empty her own expression of impish amusement. 

_By tonight_, she reveals and you straighten, ignoring the twinge in your muscles.

Your attention goes to Santino and he looks at you at the exact same moment.

You share a long, weighty look before you turn back towards Ares and Roberto. Their own expressions are dour in a way that tells you they already know what will come out of your mouth next.

Thirty is hardly the best number, but it will have to do.

“Make the calls,” you order grimly. “We attack tonight.”

_ **. . .** _

It takes another three hours of planning before you leave the penthouse.

Ares and Roberto are busy rallying the men when you go, and Santino is busy making calls for additional resources for the said men.

You have a plan. You have the formations, and have tried to prepare for as many scenarios as you could.

What if there are more than fifty men? What if the Lovers are not there? What if they _are _there, and what weaknesses can be exploited when you attack?

The plans were good, solid, but plans also go to shit. That’s why you’ve left to do your own prep.

Santino figured it would be smarter to stick together till the attack but you didn’t fear the Lovers. And going against them underprepared would be stupider. That’s why you departed with a promise that you will meet them at your agreed spot outside the Southern entrance.

Your first stop had been the Doc’s clinic.

As if there’s anyone else in this damn city, you would ever trust to get you back into a fighting form. Your limp and bruised ribs would be too much of a distraction and a slowdown in open battle. Doc had been less than pleased by your request—he’s a believer of natural healing more than anything—but he also recognised that these injuries could cost you your life. That’s why, despite his displeased muttering, he patched you up the best he could. Made you drown at least three different solutions that tasted as disgusting as they smelled but you did so without question.

A large needle in the knee later, you could walk around the clinic without a limp.

“It will reduce the swelling and the bruising for a while but won’t magically heal it,” Doc had told you, moving around his storage room and pulling different bottles out and checking their labels. “You will regain full mobility till the effect wears off but I would not recommend fighting.”

“I have no choice.”

“_Liar_,” he had grumbled and flicked your ear with a keen frown. “Violence was committed against you so now you go seeking retribution. Because you believe, wrongly, that it will make you feel good. Do you even know how to live without this violence anymore, child?”

You had said nothing in reply because you both knew the answer to his question.

No—not anymore. That, too, has been taken from you.

You left the clinic an hour later, feeling better than you have in days—if not weeks—and had set your sights on your next stop. The Continental.

Your arsenal is protected by Continental walls, and you can’t go into a fight without it.

Heading straight for your room, you only spare Charon a brief wave before mentally running through your plan of attack.

Your phone buzzes for what is no doubt tenth time in this hour alone, and you check the information coming your way. Namely, new information about the Lovers. Most of it, however, you already know.

Their hits. Tortures. Few new tidbits about their hunting methods but nothing hefty enough to really give you an edge.

The male is certainly the bigger physical threat but the female is apparently the more vindictive one. She delights in the torture. He just enjoys the hunt, the thrill of the chase.

Recalling the intensity with which he tried to run you down, you’re not surprised one bit.

Sparing a brief look at yourself in the mirror, you start to get ready.

Your combat gear is scattered around the room and you gather it quickly. Usually, you have to wear a pretty dress and heels to do a job. It’s often more about blending in and striking when no one expects it. That’s why you rarely gear up for war like this.

But you’re methodical about it. Sturdy boots, braces for all your joints, blades of varying sizes and makes curtesy of Sommelier himself, and enough ammunition to keep you battle ready without slowing you down.

And most importantly, you pull out your bodysuit, spreading it across the bed. It’s pitch black and soft to the touch. The flexible, lightweight masterpiece was custom made specifically for you little over a year ago now. Completely bulletproof even though getting hit still hurts like a bitch.

Franco—undoubtedly the best damn tailor in all of Rome, if not the world—had delighted at the challenge. He was more used to working with men and creating for them, but your request had proved to be unique enough to grab his attention.

He had created the design in a week.

And spent the following three months making it by hand. Perfectionist, that one. 

“_It is unique, there is no other like it_,” he had told you proudly when he finally presented it to you. “_And already paid for,_” he added with a knowing smile when the time to pay came.

Predictably, it had been Santino who did it. When you confronted him about it—he knows you hate presents and won’t accept them—he had simply told you that it wasn’t a present. That it was a job tool that you will use to work for him on future jobs. He had considered it an investment.

Looking back on it now, he’s far slyer than you had given him credit for because you believed him then.

But.

The suit fits you to perfection—not too loose to give people a chance to grab onto you but not tight enough to constrict your limbs, either. Just perfect, and you’re grateful for it.

There’s a slight sheen to the material in this light and you look like a black diamond, you think as you stare at your reflection, or perhaps a dark star.

_Or a deadly viper with shiny, black scales._

Your lips twitch slightly. 

With knives and extra ammunition attached to the suit and spare pockets, you look and feel deadly, too.

By the time you add poison to your arsenal, you can’t help but think that perhaps it’s the Lovers that should be worried.

You hope that they _are_.

Because they won’t live past tonight.

_ **. . .** _

Your phone rings ten minutes out.

The plan was to leave it with Santino right before you go in but keep it on you in case any last minute information comes through.

It takes one peek at the name on the screen for you to hurriedly press the _Answer_ button and press it to your ear.

“I didn’t expect you to call me,” you say down the line, tense but curious.

The male voice on the other end answers with a teasing, “I am _insulted_, carina,” he mutters before a slight chuckle sounds on the other side. “Now, please tell me that I’m brilliant because I truly _am_. Tell me how brilliant I am, V.”

Your eyes flicker outside where the New York streets blur. “Depends on what you got for me.”

“Check your mail.”

Putting him on the speakerphone, you do. A new message has just come through and you open it. An attachment pops up; an attachment with two images of familiar but much younger pale faces staring back at you. A breath rushes out of your lungs as you hurriedly scroll through the information beneath the pictures.

“How did you get this?” you wonder, breathless. “No one has been able to find anything about their pasts.”

A pleased, boyish laugh sounds in reply. But you hear the ice underneath it, the cunning. “Oh, you know how it is. A touch of hacking, a bit of murder, some extortion and it’s all very _live and let die_, no?”

You pause because you’re not sure how to answer him. With him, it could be all of the above or none—that’s just how he is.

“You’re brilliant,” you reassure him as your eyes devour the information about the Lovers. “You are the most brilliant Italian I’ve ever met.”

“Uh oh. Don’t let Santino hear that,” he jokes with a loud snort. “He might throw a fit. But yes, thank you for acknowledging it, carina. I _am_. I do believe you owe me a kiss and a dance next time you are in Rome.”

Your shake your head with a slight laugh. “You’re unbelievable,” you state dryly. “But thank you. I appreciate this. Truly. You didn’t have to,” you add, recalling the last time you all saw each other. The circumstances were less than pleasant.

“_Nope_! I most certainly didn’t, but I couldn’t resist a damsel distressed, you see,” he shoots back followed by the sound of a plastic packet opening and some crunching. Is he _eating_? “_Mhm_, by the way. Speaking of that. Don’t tell Hector. Or the Iron Crow for that matter. Please, tell Santino though. Maybe he will be less of a prick to me the next time we see each other.”

Iron Crow.

An apt name for Gianna, perhaps. But—

“Hector?” you wonder, your features twisting with confusion. “Why would I tell Hector? I haven’t seen him in years.”

Silence answers you before you hear more shuffling and chewing. Your confusion transforms into something else, something sharper. “_Step_,” you begin, tightly. “Why would I tell Hector?”

“Let’s just keep this a sexy secret between us girls,” he says with forced cheer in his voice. “Don’t do anything I won’t—and we both know that list is pretty short. Ciao!”

“_Step_—”

The line goes dead.

“Shit.”

You try to ring him back twice but he doesn’t pick up.

There is no time to try for the third time because the taxi rolls to a stop, and you hand the golden coin without so much as a second glance at the driver.

The rest of the way, you walk on foot. It takes another five minutes before you reach your destination. You don’t waste time with just walking and read the information Step has so kindly sent you on the way instead.

The male had a predictably troubled childhood but the female—

The further you read, the more you feel something like resentment starting to bubble in the pit of your stomach.

A figure ahead catches your attention and you put your phone away, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

As agreed, Roberto greets you just outside the parameter, stiff-backed and silent.

“How are we looking?” you ask him as he falls in step beside you.

He, too, is dressed for battle, and you’re glad to see the bulletproof vest covering his broad chest. He will no doubt need it before the night is done.

Overhead the moon disappears behind clouds and your head tilts. The air is full of cool dampness that’s usually followed by heavy downpour, and you wonder if that’s going to affect the sewers in any way. Hopefully, if it does, it will be to your advantage.

“We’re on track,” he reports promptly as your feet crunch on the gravel. “We have secured the Southern entrance. The guards change every four hours so we still have two hours to go before anyone comes looking. Flavio is overseeing the teams guarding the other exits but they’re hidden for now. Ares and Boss are waiting for your arrival. We’re ready to begin.”

“Any explosives?”

Roberto mutters angrily in Italian before dipping his head in a nod. “Oh yes, the bastards had enough to blow half the block just on the main entrance alone.”

Your head turns in his direction. “Have they been disarmed? Do other teams know what to expect?”

Roberto grunts under his breath, his mouth twisting beneath his beard. “Sure thing, V,” he responds and in the darkness, you think you see him grin briefly. “Ares disarmed them herself. Called the Lovers primitive idiots.”

You snort, and the sound cuts through the night air loudly. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

A small opening appears ahead and you recognise the figures moving around the darkness.

Ares is easy to spot with her slight, lithe frame and your eyes sweep over the space trying to locate another figure.

Santino stands next to one of his large Range Rovers, the bright headlights bathing him in luminous light as he oversees just like discussed. One of the guards—an individual on strike team if the uniform and the bulletproof vest is anything to go by—talks with him, but even from this distance, you can read Santino’s restlessness. His answers are short and clipped, his body language almost hostile, tense.

Another guard—this one in a suit—approaches him and hands him an umbrella. 

Your chin tips upwards again, and you realise that it’s started drizzling. The water feels fresh and cold against your skin and you blink up at the sky slowly.

By the time you look back towards Santino, the Italian seems to have spotted you as well.

His eyes darken with every step you take closer, drinking in the sight of you. He doesn’t bother masking his desire, he never does. It’s not in his nature to do so. 

“What a terrifying get up, amore,” he greets softly, his words an intimate brush against your senses. “Perhaps the Lovers will fall to their knees and start worshipping you the moment they see you instead.”

Your mouth curls. “Would certainly spare me the trouble of killing them.”

Santino doesn’t say anything, simply gazing at you before shooting a brief glance towards Roberto and the guards. The men, to their credit, understand and scatter immediately, effortlessly integrating themselves into the undergoing prep.

“You’ll get soaked,” he comments lightly and lifts his umbrella, putting it partially over your head. “Not a good look, cara mia.”

Your tongue feels heavy for some reason, but you still force out a strained. “A bit of drizzle hasn’t killed anyone yet, you spoiled bastard.”

Santino chuckles, low and deep, and takes a step closer. With the large, black umbrella hiding you away, it feels like you’re in some pocket universe, hidden from everyone.

But just as quickly as his joy blooms, it fades and something grim is left standing instead.

“Stick with Ares and Roberto,” he orders but it’s a soft thing, more of a request, a worry. “Don’t do anything stupid, either, hm?”

Your heart thuds in your chest as you stare at his shadowed features. “Worried?”

He doesn’t answer but he doesn’t need to. You know he is.

Your hand reaches out and you move his suit jacket aside. You’re not sure he’s breathing. But he _is_ wearing a holster and you see a pistol snug against his side which eases your mind a touch.

“Worried?” he whispers gently, almost jokingly.

“Yes.”

Because you are leaving him in a sea of mostly unfamiliar, untested faces. They will protect him only because they are paid to do so and it’s their job—not because they’re loyal. Not because they care for his wellbeing or even like him and that’s a flimsy, easily broken protection to rely on.

Because you would only really trust Ares with his life, and perhaps Roberto too, but they are coming with you.

Because it’s seared into your mind. That image of his broken neck and lifeless eyes.

If you fail here tonight, then the Lovers will come for _him_ next and that thought chills you to the bone.

“I do not regret Chicago,” he speaks suddenly and you pause, confused. His eyes are hooded and full of that simmering heat, but you can’t recall the last time you’ve heard him sound so morose. “Hell itself could come after us, amore, and I still won’t regret it. In fact, I would do it all over again if it leads us here every time.”

Sometimes you don’t understand him at all. “_Why_?”

His lips twist into that roguish, irritatingly charming grin that feels like a tickle. A tickle that seems to whisper _Smile with me, this is for you anyway_ and you almost do.

“Paris,” he declares with an arch of his eyebrows. “Once we’re done with those swines, let’s finally go, shall we? I’ll tell you then.”

The faint drizzle transforms into light rain and you inhale deeply. “Start ordering the tickets, then. This shouldn’t take long.”

You duck your head to step from under the umbrella, but his fingers wrap around your hand and he tugs you back, making you glance sharply in his direction.

Santino exhales slowly, his grip on your hand tight, burning. “If it goes wrong,” he breathes quietly, his words as fierce as they are gentle. “You _get out_. No matter what.”

Your throat closes up.

_No matter what._

You know he means that literally.

Get out even if it means slaughtering your way out of those damp tunnels—even if it means sacrificing your team, even if means leaving Ares and Roberto behind, too.

_I lost the title, but I have no intention of losing you too._

But you’re unsure if that’s a promise you can give him—or one you can keep.

Reaching out, you press your thumb against the rigid line between his furrowed eyebrows. His expression eases but his grip doesn’t.

“I’ll try, grumpy.”

Tugging your hand free, you step away from beneath the umbrella and relief follows every step that he doesn’t try to stop you.

Ares greets you with a nod and a wink. _Finished saying your romantic goodbyes yet?_

You shoot an irritated glare her way and sign back, _Do not start_.

Her slight smirk widens, now all teeth, and you elbow her.

“Are we ready?”

She nods once and waves her hand above her head; a signal for the men to gather around. They do so in a matter of minutes and you count ten before you. Others have split off to guard the other entrances and intercept anyone trying to escape or help.

Together with you, Ares, and Roberto that makes thirteen.

Everyone is armed to the teeth, and when Santino stalks over to address the group, you can’t help but direct your attention his way just like everyone else.

“You have been told what your task is,” he says crisply, his expression drawn. “You know your formations and you know what to expect in there. These are trained individuals so don’t be stupid enough underestimate them, _hm_? Kill them all, but if you see the Lovers do not engage. Your task is too clear a path only. Clear?”

The men call out confirmations and you look towards Ares who secures a gas mask over her face. Roberto does the same, swiftly followed by the other ten.

You’re the only one left standing without a mask and you inhale deeply, smelling the rain.

Your eyes briefly meet Santino’s through the halo of darkness his umbrella creates before you turn back towards your team. “Let’s go and say hello, shall we?”

The group falls into formation with you, Ares, and Roberto taking the lead. The tunnel ahead is a gaping pit of darkness and Ares silently signs for the men to turn on their torches. The light is dim as you move slowly, quietly, through the damp space.

For a while the path stretches straight, everything still and dark, apart for dull the symphony of rain. To get to the central position, it will take at least another ten minutes on foot and four different turns when the path eventually branches out.

The further you creep, the fouler the stench in the air becomes but you keep your focus on the sounds, anticipating movement at any moment. The element of surprise is crucial and you have no intention of letting it go to waste. Everyone else is more than aware of this too, their footsteps careful and measured on the slick concrete.

A loud, gurgling sound explodes through the tunnel and Roberto jerks his machine gun up on instinct, your hand snapping out to still him. Ares lifts her hand in the air sharply, stopping the suddenly tense team too. The sound of gutter rain washing through the mains overhead is near deafening and you slant your head, listening intently. Everyone relaxes a moment later and you pat Roberto’s arm once, reassuring, before jerking your chin towards Ares to keep moving.

You clear the first intersection without any troubles, taking a steep left. Then another few minutes of silence and rain before you come to another intersection. The team hovers before the steep turn, waiting, listening, before Ares motions with her hand and the group moves again.

By this point, the water in the tunnel is up to your ankles and you wordlessly gesture for everyone to take extra care, to slow down even more if need be. The cover of rain is helping in this case, but it’s rather difficult to hide the sound of thirteen pairs of feet trudging through water.

Ares halts ahead, tensing, and your hand tightens around the blade in your hand. It’s the third turn off, and you know that if you were right to assume the Lovers have taken up the central position here, you will start seeing bodies soon.

She raises her arm and holds out two fingers. Over the sound of dripping pipes and the loud rush of rain, you can just barely make out two voices. Coming closer.

Brushing against her side, you tap your fingers against her shoulder once and she nods. Roberto falls back a step, already knowing the routine and clearing you more space to use.

Voices draw closer. Closer. Closer…

You and Ares move so quickly, you don’t think the two men even have time to register what’s happening till it’s already too late. Your blade sinks into the man before you like butter and your hand slaps against his mouth, muffling the sound of agony as you twist the blade inside his neck. The man stumbles and falls back against the tunnel, his eyes blown wide open. He reaches for the blade but it’s too late. His life blows out like a candle and the bigger struggle is trying to get his flesh to release your weapon.

Ares steps away from her own fallen victim and wiggles her fingers at the rest of the team.

Roberto and another three men move at once, dragging the bodies to a more secluded, darker corner of the tunnel. One can never be too careful.

_We are getting close_, she signs but you’re barely paying attention.

You let that familiar, calming coldness envelope you instead. It’s like sinking into the deepest depths of the ocean and the only thing left is the end goal. Your head becomes a barren wasteland of death. John once described it to you as an absolute stillness of one’s mind. A place where you are driven by instincts alone. Survival is all that exists.

It took you years to achieve it, but you feel it now. A distant, calming call and you take a step towards it just like you take a step in the real world. 

You reach the centre in less than three minutes, and know you were right long before you do.

Silently, softly, with all the malice in the world, you and the team take out another five men before you reach the entrance.

With your back resting against the wall, you prepare the canister in your hand with a familiarity that speaks of your intimate knowledge of how it works.

Roberto stands before you on the other side of the wall, his machine gun raised, ready. Ares drills the team on formations and numbers that Roberto relays to her from the few glimpses inside.

Warm light permeates from the entrance and despite the stink and the damp in the air, you hear amiable conversation buzzing inside. A mix of languages and dialects. Many familiar to you, some not.

Rolling the canister in your hand, you give Ares the agreed signal. She moves to stand beside you and raises her hand in the air again. She holds out five fingers.

_Five._

_Four._

She glances at you, meeting your hard stare through her gas mask.

_Three._

_Two._

You feel your team collectively tense and inhale.

_One._

The canister sails through the air, exploding with thick vapour upon contact, immediately followed by another.

The previously peaceful space flies into chaos, and you use that to your advantage. The team pounces like a well-coordinated, sharpened blade and bullets rip through the air seconds later.

The Dragon’s men scramble for their gas masks, seemingly realising what’s happening when their friends start dropping to the ground with screams of pain. 

Poisoned and dying a painful death.

You could have used a paralyser, of course. 

But that would have been _kind_.

You have _no_ kindness for people who are trying to kill you and Santino.

Cutting through the vapour, you realise a few things at once.

There is certainly more than fifty of them.

And you can’t see blonde hair anywhere. Not that bright, eye-catching shade of it anyway.

Those fast enough scramble to grab their guns, and you fall behind a pillar, easily taking out five men with a clean shot each.

It’s chaos.

Chaos of poison, bodies, bullets and blood.

Seeing an opening, you dash forward, jumping down few steps to sink a blade into a man’s chest, slicing down. Twirling around, you shoot another in the head, and duck down, letting Roberto shoot another two bodies over your head. The first man drops beside you—now dead—and you rise to your feet with the cover of Roberto’s gun, letting another three blades find their targets.

On your left, a bit further down, Ares is ripping through bodies with a ruthless efficiency that almost matches your own.

Another clip of bullets later, you feel a frustrated snarl bubble at the back of your throat.

You don’t have time for _this_. Where are—

Your eyes catch a blur on your right and you manage to react just in time to kick Roberto out of the way before an explosive drops meters away from you. Throwing your body to the side, you let the small bang rattle the air.

Purposely weak.

A bait.

Even if it injures—if not outright kills—at least three of the Dragon’s men.

Their bodies lay still and unmoving and you choke down a cough at the stench of burned flesh.

Jerking your head upwards and towards the Eastern entrance, you spot the male Lover standing at the entry.

He’s as tall and as lanky as you remember—just as terrifyingly elegant, too.

Your eyes meet and his thin lips stretch into a breathless, pleased smile upon spotting you.

He seems unbothered by the poison floating through the air, or perhaps believes he’s too far away for it to affect him with the distance and no wind.

He lifts his hand and crooks his index finger at you, beckoning you to him. He then turns and disappears down the darkened tunnel, seemingly unbothered about helping his men fight.

You risk the briefest of glances towards Roberto who is already getting back on his feet before you snarl in Ares’ general direction, “Cover each other!”

“_V_!”

Ignoring the loud shout, you sprint towards the Eastern entrance. It’s a trap. _Of course, it is_. But you are _not_ going to let him get away.

Either you die here tonight, or the Lovers do. There is no option C.

A figure rushes at you, blocking your path, and you bite back a snarl.

A bullet hits your side, and another. As if you would ever make it _that_ easy.

You’ve survived too much to falter here—_now_—at the hands of some faceless nobody.

You launch yourself at him, your thighs wrapping around the body as you use the momentum to twist yourself around his waist and bury your blade in his neck.

Gravity drags you down.

The man drops to the ground heavily, you on top of him, and your legs creak from the impact as you rise at once.

Your team is _capable_.

Your team was always meant to make a path, give you a window of opportunity. 

Darkness gobbles you up as you sprint ahead, disappearing into the unknown of the tunnel ahead.

Your feet are almost as loud as the rush of water and you try to visualise the path in front of you.

A turn left and then another right will bring you to an open—

You bring your arm down with a ferocious snarl but an iron-like grip stills you before the blade can connect with flesh.

Your head slams against the tunnel wall, the blade in your hand trembling as the slim, pale fingers around your wrist tighten with numbing force.

Dim light above illuminates one side of that elegant, cold face. The male Lover looms over you like an angel, terrible and beautiful all at once.

“He told us you were fast,” he whispers, grinning.

You relax the grip on your blade, the cool metal sailing down, and catch it with your other hand, jerking it towards the man’s stomach but he stops you again, his grip equally as painful.

“But so _am I_,” he reveals, his grin stretching.

With a sneer, you kick him harshly in the knee, jerking your hands back as he stumbles away, the blade dropping to the ground. You hurdle yourself at him, not giving him time to recover.

But—

He _is_ fast.

His blocks are lightning quick. He blocks your elbow, bending your arm harshly, but you swipe another blade across his forearm, barely scratching him when he pulls back on time.

A punch. Block. Your blade slips again.

You twist from his grip, but he yanks you back to him. A swift blow follows but you block, your muscles straining under your skin.

Your arms wrap in each other, tangled, caught in a standstill, and you bare your teeth at him.

He just looks smug.

He’s too fast for you to use any weapons effectively. Too fast to even reach for any poisoned blades you have on you since you tend to keep them at a safe distance to avoid accidents.

Pushing him back, you aim a kick at him to redirect his attention.

He blocks again, ruthlessly efficient.

But using the momentary distraction, your fingers wrap around his jacket and you use it to strike him in the throat. In reply, he slams his fist against the side of your temple. You react just fast enough to make his fingers skim over the skin instead, twisting to one side with a shaky stumble.

A punch that powerful would have knocked you out cold.

You swipe your leg to trip him but he meets you halfway, your knees knocking together harshly and yours quivers from a dull throb of pain, making you gasp.

His grin stretches even further. He looks _ecstatic_.

“First time,” he notes calmly, his dark eyes flashing. “Since I’ve danced with someone who can keep up with me. I wonder if the Italian is half as fun as you are?”

Ice slides through your veins, mind, and quietens the roar in your chest. The fleeting panic at his raw strength and speed fades.

And

then

_stillness_.

Your head cracks against his. You don’t even feel the pain that follows, not really. He stumbles wildly and you punch him right in the face before grabbing his shiny golden hair and slamming your knee brutally in his face. Blood spills across those lovely porcelain features but there is nothing in your chest—nothing but a distant feeling of vicious gratification.

You pack all the strength in your body when you leg connects with his chest.

The male Lover stumbles backwards, falling, his features finally breaking away from that calm smugness and into something _else_.

You expect rage like last time but that’s not what you see.

A blade slips into your hand and you stalk towards him with every intention of splitting his throat open.

He _thinks_—

He thinks he has any right to even _imply_—

Something prickles your senses before you reach him and you lurch to the side, your blade meeting another.

The clang of metal is earsplitting.

Your arm doesn’t lower as you scowl at the figure before you.

Large, bright eyes glare at you with equal viciousness, an equal amount of contempt.

The female. _Finally_.

“How’s the arm?” you wonder, bored.

The noise she lets out is near animalistic and you pull back when she tries to bring the blade down. Hers is longer and heavier. A medium-sized knife but the advantage is still yours.

Or it would be if—

You fall to the side clumsily, rolling, as you just barely avoid another kick to the ribs. A weak spot as far as they know.

The male and the female come to stand side by side as you straighten, glaring at them.

There’s a stretch of silence between you, nothing but the roar of water and grime of New York keeping you company.

The female’s broken arm is tightly bound to her body, leaving her with only one arm to use. She’s the weaker fighter too, her skillset laying in the explosion making from what you’ve learned.

He’s the strength and she’s the brains.

You’re beginning to understand why they’re so fearsome.

Winston called them rabid dogs. Staring at them now, you can’t help but mutely agree.

The man wipes the blood from under his nose, his tongue swiping lazily over his fingers. He’s grinning though, his teeth bloody and he looks almost manic.

“You exceeded our expectations,” he states as if you should feel proud of that, and you try to subtly catch your breath instead, considering them. “We heard stories about you. The infamous Viper. They say you are one of the best, if not the best. But now—_now_, I know that you are just like _us_. We were wrong to judge you so quickly. You, too, teach through pain. Like me and my beloved.”

The man gently trails his fingers over the woman’s face and she leans into his touch. Her guard doesn’t drop though. She’s still glaring at you.

“You see this world through a broken lens,” he states softly, and his smile is almost pitying. “You know what it is to be broken and unwanted. But I’m afraid that—”

You throw a blade you sneaked into your hand at him but a bullet hits you in the chest a second later. Dropping to the floor, you groan loudly, and the woman falls on top of you, her features distorting with rage.

She _shot_ you.

“I’m going to carve you open, snake,” she hisses, clearly underestimating the depth of your injury. She raises her blade, bringing it down hastily. You catch it with your hand, the finely honed edges cutting into your gloved fingers and a harsh breath rattles from your chest. “There will be nothing _left_.”

She swears the last part in honeyed French and your expression hardens, your grip shuddering when she leans her entire body weight against it. She leans closer; so close you can smell her, feel her warmth, and that’s when—

Gathering whatever little moisture you still have in your mouth, you spit at her and she jerks back instinctively. You rotate your joined hands, aiming for her neck.

Another pair of hands stop you only inches from the curve of her throat, the knife slipping and cool fingers wrap around your neck, yanking you to your feet. The female remains on the floor, wiping at her face while you wheeze, struggling for breath.

The male Lover slams you against the tunnel wall and then again. Your vision swims and your ears ring. His bloodied features blur in front of you. “Did you think it was going to be _that_ easy? The fun is just _starting_.”

“Did you really think we didn’t know you were _coming_?” the female adds as she comes to stand behind her lover, smiling placidly. “Our _guest of honour_?”

The light above disappears.

The tunnel is enveloped in suffocating sort of blackness, endless and terrifying, in seconds.

Your heart stutters. 

The grip on your throat loosens, then disappears. 

“Where are you, viper?” the man wonders.

“Where _are_ you, little snake?” the female coos, soft and mocking.

Stillness cracks and splinters inside your chest, something sharp and freezing rushing through your veins instead.

You gasp for breath, trying to locate them but their voices echo with the rush of water—

Water—

_Underground_.

“Are you lost, little snake?”

“Oh, dear. You _are_ lost.”

“All _alone_. No one is coming for you here in this _pit_.”

The water is like a screech inside your head.

_Your head being forced under; no air, no air, no air—_

_“You’re dead to the world._”

Your heart is hammering so fast it hurts, it _hurts_—

It’s tearing out of your ribcage.

A swift, brutal kick lands against the back of your knees.

You crumple to the ground with a cry of pain.

A weight settles on top of you, keeping you down.

You can’t _breathe_.

“I wonder if you taste sweet?” a male asks, his voice warping between two different tones, accents, pitches. “Are you venomous all the way through, I _wonder_?”

A hot breath brushes against the shell of your ear.

Followed by intense pain tearing through your left ear.

Your trash wildly, your limbs clumsy and panic-stricken, as a small noise of agony escapes your quivering lips.

“_Shh, shh_,” that gentle voice that sounds like Kishi but not Kishi soothes followed by a delicate brush of skin against your cheek. “It’s just a little…_cut_. You’re special, you see. I’ve never met someone like you before.”

His voice is a faint melody against your fracturing senses.

You can’t _see_, you can’t _breathe_, something hot trickles down your ear and neck—

_Blood_. Your blood and you feel a scrape of cold metal against your skin again—

A flare of light—

Gunshots rip through the air—

The weight disappears and there’s indistinct shouting, followed by sounds of a struggle.

You force your limbs to twitch.

_Water, water, water, in your mouth—_

_You can’t breathe._

Light flares again and you turn your head towards it, bleary-eyed.

_Ares_—

Ares is fighting the male Lover and—

No, no, no—he’s too fast for her. He _so_ fast. He’s like you—

You gasp, forcing air into your lungs.

You’re _not_ in that pit. Kishi is _not_ here.

Kishi is _dead_.

Kishi is dead because _you_ killed him.

Your fingers slide down your suit, clumsy and shaking, but whatever they touch doesn’t seem to register.

“Stop your squirming,” the female spits and grabs you, moving her knife towards your throat. “Get _up_—”

You’re faster.

The vial smashes right against her forehead and you stagger back as she lets out a scream so loud, your ears ring. Her skins bubbles—an ugly, blistering red—and she covers her right eye, choking on her wails of agony.

Your pistol slams against the back of her head and she slumps towards the ground. You drop on top of her, your knee pushing against her spine. You aim—

“_Shoot her and I snap her neck!_”

You freeze. Your hand is shaking so badly that normally you might have been embarrassed by it, but you feel the heat of your freshly spilt blood dripping down your neck and it makes you _angrier_. It wakes you up from your panicked haze.

Your head lifts slowly. The woman beneath you is sobbing, still clutching and scratching at her raw skin.

She will always be beautiful.

She will heal.

But she will never look into a mirror again without remembering you.

Nor will she ever see with her right eye again.

The male Lover is holding Ares in a chokehold and the sight of it makes your lips twist. The only light in this darkness is Ares’ fallen torch but you can’t help but feel like the man before you can feel your fury from where he’s standing.

Ares has her teeth grit tightly, jaw stubbornly clenched, but the moment she so much as squirms, the man only constricts his grip on her neck. Her gas mask is missing and through the darkness you try to meet her eyes.

The male Lover jerks them closer towards the light and you press the barrel of the gun against his lover’s head.

“Don’t think I _won’t_,” you sneer, your voice hoarse and breathless with unbridled fury.

The man chuckles though with his features smeared with blood and hair a mess, he looks no better than you likely do. “Oh, I _know_ you would. That’s why you’re so much _fun_,” he tells you and pulls Ares closer while she claws at his hands, drawing blood, but the man barely seems to notice. His frenzied stare is on you and you alone. “But why must you hurt my love so? What are you trying to teach us, viper? Tell me.”

You remain silent, breathing heavily. Your ear hurts more than you would care to admit.

“_Tell me!_”

It rips through the tunnel like a gunshot.

“Let her go,” you intone coldly, your words thin. “Or I will splatter your lover’s brain all over this grimy, shitty, good for nothing hellhole tunnel.”

His expression strains, his mouth quivering before he swallows and nods, regaining his composure. “A trade, then.”

The woman beneath you is still sobbing, her cries now more muffled and smothered, and you wonder if she even heard your threat.

Ares shakes her head angrily, tapping her fingers in Morse code against her thigh.

_Kill him._

You yank the woman up by her hair and she tries to fight, tries to struggle, but you press the cool barrel against her temple and she stills.

“On three.”

He stares at you wildly. “Two.”

Your jaw clenches. “One.”

Two things happen simultaneously.

The woman in your grip jerks forward, striking her elbow into your stomach, effectively throwing your aim.

At the same time, Ares breaks free from her hold, slamming her body into the man behind her.

The female Lover doesn’t linger to fight. She uses your moment of pained confusion to dash into the darkened pathway behind you, leading her further into the sewer system.

You aim after her, firing twice, but your grip is too shaky and both shots miss.

Pivoting, you aim your pistol at the male Lover only to find him right in front of you. His fist strikes your hand, your pistol sailing through the air and you both crash against the wall again.

He holds your hands between you, the blade you had managed to grab just in time trembling between your bodies. His other hand rests against the curve of your throat.

Ares is on the ground, unmoving.

“_What did you_—”

“Don’t worry, now,” he reassures softly, his thumb tracing your pulse. “She’s just sleeping. Breaking her would be _easy_. But she’s unworthy—unlike _you_.”

Gritting your teeth, you shove the blade closer towards his stomach and his grip on your wrists tightens, his features going taut.

“Do you hate me, viper?” he wonders faintly with a tilt of his head, baring his teeth at you. “Let me teach you about hate.”

The hand around your throat loosens and you try to slam your head against him again but he leans back, tutting, “Not this again,” he comments, his voice dripping with disdain. “We can dance another time, you and I. It’s been so long since I had such a worthy partner. How does that sound?”

He pulls something from his pocket and—

Your heart sinks.

A detonator.

You could have written off their earlier comment as chance or a figure of speech, but this proves that they had _known_.

Known that you were coming.

His finger caresses the button and his eyes flutter shut for a moment. You jerk the blade again, your forehead dripping with sweat but he only laughs softly.

The man opens his eyes and grins at you; a sharp, cutting thing. “What are you trying to teach us? What is your lesson?”

You say nothing, concentrating only on gutting him.

His smile fades at your silence.

He presses the button. 

The tunnels rock at their very foundation and you hear the far away crash of stone and concrete.

The sound rushes in your direction, deafening, and your heart seizes.

“Ares!” you shout from the top of your lungs, your grip loosening and the man before you watches you with wild interest. “_Ares, wake up!_”

She twitches.

“Ares!”

You trash in his hold, no longer caring about killing him.

You need to get out.

She needs to wake up and you need to run as fast as you can.

She blinks; once, twice.

“What lesson—”

You snarl at him, your words clawing up from deep within you, barely intelligible. “I’m going to _destroy_ you, _Lucien_,” you choke out, and watch how his features slacken with utter shock. “I will destroy you and your girlfriend. _I will bury you both_.”

His _real_ name. The name from his childhood that you know only thanks to Step and the information he gathered.

Lucien’s grip loosens and you sink the blade into his gut.

He makes no noise of pain. He only stares at you, awestruck. 

His fingers latch onto yours but instead of removing the blade, he presses your hands deeper, his blood spilling around your fingers before he moves to grab the side of your face. You cringe in pain, his blood-covered fingers pressing against your injured ear and smearing against your cheek.

“We are bound, you and I,” he breathes in wonder, and you barely hear him over the sound of crumbling concrete that’s rushing ever closer. “We were forged by violence and we are now bound by it. We always will be.”

Lips twitching, you twist the blade in his gut and he staggers back, laughing, clutching at his wound. “Next time, then,” he concludes with another listless smile.

You step after him.

A loud crack.

Dust rushes into the tunnel and you throw yourself towards Ares instead.

She’s stumbling to her feet but—

Her eyes are wide when they meet yours.

_If it goes wrong. You get out._

_No matter what._

Your fingers latch onto her forearms.

And then you kick her right in the chest with whatever little strength you still have left in the opposite direction.

Dust drowns you.

You don’t resurface. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RUH ROH! 
> 
> Ahhh, I hoped you guys liked this wild, wild mess of a chapter. We had a bit of everything! How are we feeling guys? Team John? You guys are finally starting to move in a positive direction! Team Ares?? Hello??? Team Santi?? I assume you’re all going off lol. And where is my TEAM V AT????
> 
> Ngl, this chapter exists solely because I wanted to write everyone just....being a badass?? I like writing about people being badass. You also got a glimpse into how, exactly, V works with Team Camorra. Together they form the far superior Team Pasta. Also the Lovers?? How did you guys like my murder children? This is far from last time we’re seeing them heh~~ 
> 
> As always, you are all so damn amazing, I’m so grateful for you all. Thank you for reading and supporting this series you amazing, wonderful people! Till next update!


	11. we are incomplete;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I was very stuck on CH12 and unwell for weeks which made regular writing difficult. Hope you're all well and thank you for reading as always! Your support means the world <33
> 
> Buckle up. 
> 
> We're about to go on a ride.

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go _wrong_.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply _there_ and that had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and _open_.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He _did_ get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the _sight_ of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right _through_ him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had _widened_ at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, _pathetically_ in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course _not_. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because _now_…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker. 

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

_Sir_.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even _is_ he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone. 

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He _hates_ waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he _waits_, he paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to _come back out_ already.

_Come on, amore, come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back._

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

_They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered._

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile. 

**_No_**.

_ **. . .** _

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and _burning, burning, burning_.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, _back_—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep inside your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to _breathe_?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To _me_. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always _lose_, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

_fall_.

_ **. . .** _

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

_He is fine_, she signs when she releases your hand. _Physically._

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

_Got away in the chaos_, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than that is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

_I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help._

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

_Ares_. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

_Your phone_, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth._ You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder._

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. _Do not dare thank me. You saved my life._

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

_Perhaps we are all more than that._

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team that you’ve never considered the fact that they might have become even more important than that. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We _are_, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again. 

_ **. . .** _

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

_I have never seen him look so afraid before._

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

In that instance, you’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I _failed_—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did _not_ fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in _blood_.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say _sorry_,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was _far_ worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the _waiting_. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely _breathing_. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself into your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind. 

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “_Always_. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. _Tsk_, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was _very_ charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m _sure_.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have _hated_ me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would _grow_ on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so _easy_.

But that’s not the reality you live in. 

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

_ **. . .** _

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you _rest_.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object. 

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a _dance_ next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You _can’t_—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘_going on_’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

_ **. . .** _

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him. 

“_John_.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He _has_ changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him— 

Of _you_.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

_She’s a friend._

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards Santino.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just _barely_.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid. 

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“_Grazie_.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree. 

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him. 

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your _real_ name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you. 

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on _him_ instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“_Have a very happy life, John._”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only _one_ other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you _not_ to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what _she_ did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part _hers_…and _mine_.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he notes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides that he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so _easily_.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino will care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio _care_—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, _hm_?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for _her_. You _owe_ her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as _If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again_ to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but _this_ is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t _want_ this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“_Take it back?_” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a _blood oath_.”

He _knows_. He knows that but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever little shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tale-tell _click_ of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath. 

“_Listen to me_,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? _Hmm_? Do you remember? This is _your_ blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of _your_ negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath, and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your..._make-believe_, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “_Hey, grumpy._”

How much has changed between you and Santino? 

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

_You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time._

_You_ bought him this time and he regrets so many things sometimes. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even _now_, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less _actually_ going back.

He _could_. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s _you_.

Maybe because it _is_ you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the _least_ you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

_I’m respecting your decision to stay retired._

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She _understands_.”

He knows you do. That you will. He _hopes_ you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in that slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible that John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in his hand and he pockets it carefully. The Italian then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in that proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though. 

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You _never_ did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the Italian moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile. 

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “_Buona notte_,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

_ **. . .** _

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and the man inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he _loves _it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state that he can’t get involved in such matters as the manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope that he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge. 

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone. 

“_Lucky_.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

_Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?_

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You _know _that scent. That strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of the large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peaks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid. 

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his lips.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

His scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “_Relax_,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around. 

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest. 

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My _bad_.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for _sightseeing_. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer _only _to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say that Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you. 

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it. 

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you that his lungs haven’t given out yet. 

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes off if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “_Funny_. Considering that she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny, that Gianna would come seeking to make amends _now_. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he _is_, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require. 

“_Don’t tell Hector._”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“_Careful_,” you purr slowly, and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so. “_Like_ her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about _either _of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, _not _the individual. Besides, you of all people should know that respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep. 

“Yes, it must be _very _hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are _you_ here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“_Cassian_,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking _nerve _of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice. 

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused. 

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall _your _hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary that the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you. 

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused noise at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though. 

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned that he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain that gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in that oath, isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing. 

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector _does _laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him. 

“If I _were _you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not _yet_. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“_Relax_ _already_, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table, your appetite long since gone.

_ **. . .** _

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him. 

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully, and pinch your voice lower. “_I’ve missed you, V, so good to see you’re alive and well, my dear._”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you _are_ in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what well?”

This time it’s Winston that pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease. 

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be _here_, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into that cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady. 

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know _what_?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

_ **. . .** _

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

_“Don’t_.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you, and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with. 

“For me? For _me_?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She _knew_. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you _will _see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression that it’s not because he asked her to do so, and more to do with the fact that neither she nor Roberto wants to see this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what _either_ of them wants right now. 

_He did it to keep you safe._

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. _Now_.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled, dim noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone, but doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple _Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi_ without any additional information.

Now, you know that the _something _in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed till this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth as he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time, so long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. _Mhm_. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me, ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then that I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth _any _price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a brief second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, _hm_, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present. 

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his _house_.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s _ash_. 

“And he _refused _a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had _no _right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had _every _right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia, we do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you. 

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t _everything _with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the word, and he _took _it. You’re not foolish enough to believe that it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his _heroic _actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? _Hm_?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“_Ten days_,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, _hm_? _Did_ he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“_No_,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day _eight_, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston that contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino? 

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling that suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it. 

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, _years_ all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. _Only six_. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in _six hours_.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it _hurts_. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a _punishment_. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be _enough_. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless. 

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he _should _have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag _John Wick_ into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills, and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or— 

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you _didn’t, Santino_.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your _sister_!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My _sister_—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she would not do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your _friends_? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How _dare _you stand there and ask me that? After _everything_,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these _years_. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he utters evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry that he would just _assume _he knows how you feel better than you do. 

“_Stop_. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is _you_,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am _not _a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart. 

“I never cared about you being _good_,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same, with both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

_You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose._

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer till you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister _die _if it means keeping _you _safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

“_Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they _**_find it_**_, you will never be loved like that again._”

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I _do_ need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm that you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it _back_.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know that you are only doing this in an attempt to spare _him_. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate. 

“_Amore—_”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “_Don’t call me that_! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your _anything_.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his _eyes—_

_I will never abandon you._

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, things we do for love, eh? :) 
> 
> jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind.


	12. exitus acta probat;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s like everything in my life is unravelling right now and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap yourselves in. This bad boy is the longest chapter in the series so far (18k+).
> 
> Also, a reminder that English is _not_ my native language so any grammar/spelling errors are all my own and I'm sorry if things are a bit bloated and over-explained sometimes. Enjoy!

“You don’t have to do this.”

Blinking sluggishly, you brace a hand on your work table, pausing in your preparations.

A familiar vial lays before you and it feels like an insult, like another example of your many failures. It’s not _ready_. Years of work and research and trying and failing and…

Now that you actually need it, you can’t be sure it’s ready. Can’t be sure it will work. So _close_.

Your hands shake and you press your forearms to your sides to still them.

Dragging your gaze away from it, you return to packing.

Winston still hasn’t looked at you since his earlier statement, his back to you as he stares out of your hotel room window.

“What choice do I have?”

“Every choice,” he shoots back easily, and finally looks at you. His stare is hard, cold. “Johnathan knew full well what he was doing in agreeing to that Marker, _and_ when he refused it. Mr D’Antonio, too, is no child. They are responsible for their own actions. It is not _your_ job to fix their messes.”

You throw down the article of clothing clenched between your fingers, stepping closer towards the older man.

“That Marker exists because of _me_,” you snap, breathless with anger. “And it _shouldn’t_. John’s home is rubble because of _me_. Of course, they’re both equally as accountable for this but it stems from _me_. It’s my responsibility, too, and I have to make it right.”

“You can’t interfere.”

You know that. Markers are as good as sacred.

Once the terms are set, they have to be fulfilled. No one can interfere with the completion of a Marker, or risk invoking the wrath of the table itself.

You can’t save Gianna no matter how much you want to. Not without throwing away everything you have worked for.

“I’m not going to,” you tell him, struggling for air. “But Camorra will hunt John, and the least I can do is help. This will end in blood on both sides otherwise. I can’t let that happen.”

Your voice softens by the last sentence but the hard look in Winston’s eyes remains. Not that you expected him to show much sympathy for anyone in this situation. He’s a man of rules, of order. In his eyes, if John agreed to a Marker then he should have honoured it, and what he does after is his business. You can’t help but agree with that, too. But the dread you’ve felt since Winston told you about the Marker’s existence has only amplified since your conversation with Santino.

It stalks your every step. Accompanies every breath your draw into your lungs.

This situation—and all the factors involved in it—are a time bomb ready to blow, obliterating everything.

“You are _terrified_,” Winston voices suddenly, his narrowed stare stripping you down to your core. As always, he can see right through you. His words, knowing and incisive, wrap around your throat, squeezing it tight. “So terrified that you will lose them that you would willingly place yourself in the middle of this. Regardless of the consequences.”

You say nothing. You only stand in front of him and feel pathetically small under that unwavering, wise gaze. Winston exhales quietly, shaking his head slightly.

“What if it’s _you_ that gets torn down in this little squabble for power?” he wonders but not unkindly. “What then, (Name)?”

How can you explain it to him? What words can you use to convince a man of professional, unyielding conviction that your actions are anything other than a desperate attempt to keep people you care about safe? What is this, if not completely irrational on all sides of this unfolding conflict?

You’re teetering on that edge again and Winston is right. You _are_ terrified.

Everything has a price, and things always come full circle.

“Sometimes—”

Your voice cracks and you swallow thickly, looking away for a second as you force yourself to take a calming breath. “Sometimes I feel so alone it’s like I can’t _breathe_,” you confess in a tiny whisper, faint and fragile. “And it’s like everything in my life is unravelling right now and there’s _nothing_ I can do about it. You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else, Winston. I _can’t_.”

The man’s expression eases, the light in his eyes softening just a touch.

But before he can say anything else your phone rings. Swallowing, you grab it off your table. It must be Santino—

But you feel yourself grow cold at the number shining back at you on the screen.

“It’s the Administration.”

Winston’s chin dips, his lips pressing into a stiff line, and he gives you a serious look. “Then you better answer.”

_ **. . .** _

Rome is beautiful.

Over the last five years, you have grown to love it as much as New York.

You’ve spent many days in this city, in this country, due to your association with Camorra alone.

The architecture, the food, the cobbled streets and the energetic flow of Italian in the air. It mixes with English, French, Russian, amongst many others; and stepping back into this city is like being dragged into a dance, dizzying as it is warm.

Italy has—in many ways—become a second home to you.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m not here because I want to see you kill Gianna,” you speak tightly, not looking at the man beside you. On the flight here, you’ve barely exchanged more than a few words. He seemed just as preoccupied with his thoughts as you have been. All he did was give you a long, searching look and asked you if you’re sure about coming along. “That Marker exists because of me. It’s my responsibility, too. And—”

And you know Santino. You know Camorra.

“I’m your insurance policy.”

John turns after you when you move, and he almost looks out of place. This man in a dark suit and dark eyes, standing in a city of such culture and light, like an ink stain on a perfectly clean canvas. You hesitate, reading his desire to speak. 

“You’re angry.”

You almost laugh out loud. In fact, a hysteric laugh tickles the back of your throat and you chuckle instead, even if the sound lacks joy.

“Yeah,” you intone flatly, looking up towards the clear, open sky above you. “Yeah, I’m _angry,_ John. I’m angry at Santino. I’m angry at _you_. I’m angry that this bullshit keeps happening.”

John’s expression is guarded and you don’t quite understand the look in his eyes.

He’s angry, that much you do know. He didn’t want to be back. But when he looks at you there is something else there now; a weight, a question, a hundred unspoken conversations. 

“I didn’t think it would come to this.”

You exhale through your nose, your expression relaxing with cold amusement. You’re so _tired_ of everyone. Everyone and their insistence that they know what they’re doing.

Every nerve in your body feels raw, and you don’t try to hold back the acid in your voice.

“That so?” you contemplate softly, but the bite to your words is impossible to miss. “Then tell me what the hell did you _think_ was going to happen, John? Did you think that Santino was never going to call in that Marker? You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever known but I really have to question your logic here. I’m furious at Santino for calling it in but what were _you_ thinking when you refused it? A _Marker_, John.”

Santino wasn’t exaggerating. With John refusing to honour an oath, he easily could have taken this matter straight to the High Table. And the latter is ruthless in dealing with such breach of their rules.

No bloodshed on Continental grounds and every Marker must be honoured. Such simple rules, really.

John’s refusal alone almost ended his life.

Wanting to stay away from this world is one thing. But knowingly creating a Marker only to later refuse it—

It’s _one_ job.

Better one last head dive into the abyss than being dead.

“What is he to you?”

You don’t hear this tone often—not from him, and not directed at you. This is the Boogeyman talking with that low, icy voice that is just a touch more insistent than the John you know.

Your eyes find him and for several moments you are both silent.

Rome is a buzzing anthill of life and joy and despair but you two are suspended in this moment, and your tongue refuses to work.

Santino.

What _is_ he to you?

_I’m not your anything._

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? A hurt driven, angry lie because you are—

“A friend.”

But this time, it’s not enough.

John speaks before your lips even close. “What _more_ than that?”

The push is unexpected.

But if this is the path your old beloved wants to walk.

“When you left—” you start and pause, gathering your thoughts. John is unmoving and silent, waiting for you to continue but you see how the corners of his mouth tilt downwards. He already knows that what you will say next is unlikely to be pleasant. “When you left I had no one. No one to turn to, no one I could trust. Every enemy you ever had then turned their sights onto me. They hunted me, tried to capture me, poison me. Santino helped me. Offered me to work for him to keep Tarasov appeased. He kept me safe. Of course, he got plenty out of our partnership over the years but…”

“But you trust him.”

Not a question.

John’s expression is drawn, and it’s difficult for you to read what’s going on behind those eyes.

His loaded statement hangs between you, and you take a moment to think about it properly.

With everything that you have gone through in the last five years alone— 

“I do,” you admit quietly, even though those words make you feel naked and vulnerable. Even when a tiny part of you still whispers that you are a fool for doing so. That Santino is just another liar in a long line of liars. “Which is why I have to ask you something, and you have to promise me that you will answer me honestly.”

_I found you in six hours._

But did he really? Did Santino mean those words or did he simply exaggerate to make himself look better, to justify his own anger, his own bitterness and old resentments?

John only gazes at you, even though your confession seems to have dimmed something inside him. He doesn’t look surprised, however, and it makes you wonder what else he’s gleaned from this exchange.

“When I was taken in Tokyo,” you start after another uneasy moment between you. “How long did it take for you to go to Santino?”

The question that’s been plaguing you for so long now.

The question that immediately creases John’s expression with a muted, worn sort of sadness. Devastation.

You almost don’t want to hear his reply.

“Eight days. I—”

You interrupt him before he can go on any further, “And how long did it take for him to track my location?”

This time, John looks confused.

“Why—”

You inhale deeply and try to keep your composure. “Please, just tell me.”

He moves closer and for a moment you fear he’s going to try and touch you but he doesn’t and you’re grateful. You don’t need his pity now. 

“A little over six hours,” he tells you, and your throat closes up at his words, a lump forming. “(Name), I’m sorry.”

You know he is. You know he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. In the place of that inferno that has raged and raged inside you for years, now only ash and embers remain.

You miss the inferno.

It made you feel at least a little secure in your emotions.

But John’s words tangle around your heart for a different reason, pulling on it harshly.

_Have I ever lied to you?_

Santino hasn’t. Seemingly even now when you’ve been so sure that he finally has. 

“Why did you agree to that Marker?” you demand next, though this time your voice is thinner, less sure. You try to shake it, try to force iron and ice and discipline into your demeanour like your Master always told you is necessary. “You could have tracked me yourself.”

Because he’s John Wick. Because it would have been easy for him, even if it would have taken longer. At least he would have been free of the burden he now carries. 

“Because I felt like I failed you,” he admits in a hushed breath and the pain in his dark eyes no doubt matches your own. “Because you were _gone_ and I—”

You nod your head in understanding, and a pained, brief smile flashes across your features.

“You felt guilty,” you assume and know you are right by the way your words make him briefly close his eyes. “Guilt and pity. Seems like our relationship has that in abundance.”

Your tone is lifeless and distant and you don’t look at him, choosing to gaze instead towards the breathtaking architecture around you.

For a long moment, it’s silent between you. It’s not awkward or tense though. It’s almost peaceful. In a sense, you are getting the answers to questions a part of you has always clung to. In a sense, a part of you finally feels at ease. 

“I wanted to save you. More than anything. That Marker…” he fades off. “The Marker was the fastest way to find you.”

Your eyes go back to him, meeting his, and you tell him one simple fact that he seems to have forgotten. “But you didn’t save me, John,” you remind with a slight smile but your words are not an accusation, they’re just words. “I saved myself.”

You crawled your way out of that pit on your own. And maybe you would have failed at the last hurdle. Maybe you would have been stopped or tracked down once the guards noticed something was wrong, but _you_ had saved _yourself_. Killed Kishi yourself. Freed yourself.

You were alone in hell, and you had made it your own.

One person was dragged into its depths, and something else was spat back out.

You were forged in the violence and the despair of that darkness.

There is no shame in admitting that, or owning it.

John says nothing but the look on his face says everything.

“I need time,” you finally say, and try to control the fidgeting of your fingers. “I have a few errands I need to run. I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

He takes a step closer, his fingers grazing against the skin of your inner wrist.

You exhale sharply at the sensation, pulling back to look towards him instead.

His expression is torn, so you reassure him with a simple, “I’m not running from you. I think it’s finally time we have this conversation but I just—I need to…to think.”

To prepare for the inevitable pain. For tearing of the scars that have finally stopped aching after all these years.

You give him one last look, and you see the understanding there.

He lets you go. 

_ **. . .** _

It takes you till nightfall to return to the Continental.

Gianna’s coronation is tomorrow night and it cramps your stomach with nerves just thinking about it.

This is a ruthless world, and Gianna is a ruthless woman.

You know very well that she would do the same to Santino if it came down to a choice. But—

But you can’t help but blame Giovanni once again.

It’s his fault. He’s the one who made his children into _this_. Pushed them apart because only one could inherit his seat. Morphed them and shaped them into what he needed them to be. Stole from them the loyalty and the bond that should have been between the two siblings.

It makes you feel so helpless, so bitter with disappointment. Perhaps Gianna is not your favourite person in the world after what she did, but you did consider her your friend once. Once you believed it was mutual. You’ve shared time together, too. Bonded. Cared for one another.

She doesn’t deserve this.

You hate how unfair it all is.

Tradition, old hurts, resentment, fears.

They have all come together to set the stage for a tragedy.

“It is good to have you with us again, Vipress.”

Your attention snaps to the tall man walking down the stairs of the Rome Continental, his guards only a few steps behind him. 

Julius greets you with a faint smile and a kiss on your cheek that prompts a smile of your own.

“Ciao, Julius,” you greet him. “You look well. Winston sends his regards.”

The man in front of you chuckles. “Ah, my old friend. How is he?”

You suppress a smirk. “Still Winston.”

Julius nods with a knowing look and leads you towards the reception. “The presidential suite has already been prepared for you as per Mr D'Antonio's old request.”

Santino.

God. You’ve tried not to think about him since you walked out of the gallery, leaving him behind. That look on his face has seared itself inside your mind. So much so, that it’s easier not to think about your goodbye. Easier not to think about the Lovers and how they might use your separation to get to him. Easier not to think about all the things you should have said to him instead. 

_Stop. Think. This is insane. This is not worth it. You’re smarter than this._

But you can understand his desperation, too. In a sense. Because if the situation was reversed, is there anything you won’t do for him, or John, or Winston? Ares? Any of your friends?

When you have so little, you cling to things that make you happy with desperation and hopelessness only few can truly understand.

But that does not excuse his recklessness, does not excuse his actions no matter how worry driven they might have been.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately, assuming the worst, knowing how Santino can get when he doesn’t get his way. “Was he unpleasant about it? I—”

Julius gives you a brief, amused look. “No, he was rather...polite about it, actually. He learned from last time, I believe.”

Yes, last time.

Last time when Santino chewed out one of the attendants for miserving him. Every bit the spoiled mafia heir. You refused to speak with him for the rest of your stay in Rome. Once, not so long ago, you were less than that attendant who was only trying to make an honest living. You were _less_. One mistake did not give him the right to unleash his temper as he did. Did not give him the right to look down on them without knowing anything about their life just because he was richer.

Your silence, your dismissal and refusal to so much as acknowledge him, had stung deeply. He had acted prissy at first, too, but with days that passed in a tense stalemate, he mellowed.

Perhaps he did learn his lesson.

He apologised for the incident eventually, no matter how reluctant.

Perhaps he can still see the errors of his way now as well.

You hope he will.

“Oh. Thank you,” you say instead, and shift in your spot while you wait for the receptionist to give you your key. “John?”

Julius makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat, placing his palm on the gleaming dark wood.

“Yes, Mr Wick,” the man begins, his tone leading as he gazes in your direction. “I admit I was rather surprised to learn that you have come to Rome together on business, and not with Mr D’Antonio instead. I initially feared the worst.”

You almost laugh.

A slight grin appears despite your attempt to keep it at bay.

“Let me guess,” you muse, trying to hold back your mirth. “The Pope? Not this time, Julius.”

The man’s answering stare is so unamused, you chuckle under your breath. It feels good to smile, even if it takes considerable effort to do so.

Julius takes your keycard, but hesitates in passing it to you.

“I do hope that whatever business you two have in this city will not cause too much trouble, yes?”

Your slight smile falls and you break the eye contact, glancing away.

You wish you could reassure him and mean it. But that would be a lie.

“I can’t promise that.”

Julius doesn’t look surprised to hear it. He is a man who has seen a lot just like Winston. They’re old, wise wolves in a world of bloodthirsty beasts. He knows that your and John’s presence here, now, can’t possibly mean anything good. 

“I wish you a pleasant stay as always,” Julius says, at last, holding out the card towards you. “Mr Wick is staying in room 459.”

You try for a smile again but it feels forced this time, empty. Giving him a grateful nod instead, you pocket the card and head towards the elevator, trying to pretend you don’t feel Julius’ gaze follow you the entire way.

Getting to John’s room takes only minutes, and you knock on the door once, balancing on the balls of your feet.

You feel so restless, it’s like your skin is crawling constantly.

_You’re dead to the world_, a sly whisper tickles against the back of your neck.

_Shut up._

The voice still continues though, and you try to drown it out by counting louder in your head. Like placing bricks between you and Kishi’s ghost. 

The door swings open and John’s face appears through the crack. You know he has a gun in his hand from one look.

“Don’t look so surprised to see me,” you tell him flatly and step closer, waiting for him to let you inside. He does and your eyes sweep over the room. An old habit that’s been integrated into you by the very man who now resides inside it. “I assume you made preparations already. I will need debriefing on your plan.”

You wander closer towards the table where you notice maps already laid out. John is methodical and you know he always plans. 

“Are you sure you want to get involved in this?” his voice sounds from behind you.

Your fingers brush over the edge of the papers, humming, and you glance over your shoulder.

“The Marker must be honoured,” you state, your tone wooden. “Camorra lives by the rules even more so than other families but they _will _retaliate, and you will need every little shred of help you can get. Trust me.”

John comes closer, his expression thoughtful and you look back down towards the table. “Catacombs, huh? Smart.”

An easy way to get into the party and out without being seen.

You knew of the tunnels. The D’Antonio siblings have told you about them.

That gives you a pause.

Even if you were miserable back then, those months you’ve spent with them have been some of the happiest in hindsight.

“Santino told me. About what you did for me,” John speaks suddenly, like those words have been waiting to burst out of him, and comes to stand beside you. His stare is unwavering, latching onto you and your breaths even out. “How the only reason he helped me with my task is because you asked him to.”

You don’t say anything.

This certainly explains John’s earlier conflict—that heaviness in his eyes that said he wanted to ask something but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“Anything else Santino tell you?”

You wish you didn’t sound so morose, so joyless.

John’s lips part and he exhales quietly.

He knows full well what he’s about to start.

What two sad people you both have become.

Wary of each other and the dense mass of unspoken things between you. 

“Why would you do it?”

You scoff, turning away from him as you shake your head.

“Really John?” you wonder in disbelief as you turn your attention back to him. John is still peering at you, waiting for a reply. “Because I _loved _you. Because the alternative was you potentially dying and no matter how much you hurt me, I could never live with myself if that happened.”

His eyes lower, silent, and you can’t help but wonder, “Did you think that my feelings for you were a passing fancy? Is that it?”

His gaze flickers upwards, his dark eyes sparking at the carefully hidden hurt in your words.

“No. I knew that what we had was real,” he rebukes softly and steps closer. You look up at him and hate security that his presence always brings. “_Thank you_. For giving me that time with her.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts.

Helen. The beautiful woman you can still recall in your memories. Who stood and fit beside John so well. His other half. The woman who he chose.

That’s what it came down to, in the end, a _choice_.

You turn away from him, tugging off your pea coat and dropping it over the arm of a plush chair as you lower yourself onto it. Leaning back into the comfort of the expensive material, you tap your fingers against the armrest, staring up at the man who still stands beside the table.

“Tell me about her,” you request calmly, your fingers tapping, tapping, tapping— “Tell me everything. From start to finish.”

John blinks, his surprise clear before he masks it, turning to face you fully as you both stare at each other.

The tension in the room grows.

“Are you sure you want to do this now—”

You almost bare your teeth at him.

“Yes, _now_. You wanted this chance, and I deserve to know everything,” you remind him through gritted teeth, and press your palm against the armrest when his attention moves towards your restless fingers. “Because I am so _sick _of people presuming that they know what’s best for me or how I feel.”

You won’t be in this mess if people just stopped _assuming_. 

If everyone just stopped and _listened_.

John pushes away from the table, walking towards the other vacant chair in the room with measured steps. He sits himself down, and every shift of his muscles is heavy, weary.

“Do you remember the Dublin job?”

“Yes, what about it?”

Dublin was the last time you worked together. The very last of your happiness before your birthday, before Tokyo, before everything that followed after.

A bar, thick smoke, rowdy singing and you leaning into his side—into his warmth. In a shadowed corner of that bar his hand had rested against your lower back, his fingers delicate against your warm skin.

He had smiled at your every joke, and you had fallen more and more in love with every twitch of his mouth. With him.

There—hidden away from the world—you had both been free to be happy.

However briefly. 

“After we came back, Tarasov asked to see me,” John’s low voice drags you out of the memory you haven’t visited for years, and you glance at him. “He told me that he knew about us. He told me that he is willing to give me one last chance to make it right. Either I stop whatever is going on between us or…”

“Or?”

“Or he kills you,” he divulges and his tone grows strained. “I knew he meant it. He said that he couldn’t have my loyalties split. Either I put a stop to it myself or he will have me kill you. I—I pushed you back because I couldn’t let that happen.”

You swallow weakly, moving your eyes away as he speaks.

It hurts to recall this, but you let him talk. This is perhaps the most open he has ever been with you so you listen.

“Better to hurt you than—I couldn’t lose you,” he whispers faintly, folding his fingers. His golden wedding ring catches your eye in the dim light of the room. He still wears it. Maybe he always will. You know you would. “You meant too much. I wanted—I suppose it doesn’t matter what I wanted now but...I did it to keep you _safe_. The only way I knew how.”

You nod your head vaguely, and lace your own fingers in your lap. The skin beneath your knuckles strains but you force the rest of your body to remain motionless.

“And Helen?”

There is no resentment in your voice, just curiosity.

“After I rejected your feelings, you drifted away just as I expected,” John resumes after a lengthy pause. “I knew you would need space so I was prepared to wait. Helen…I ran into her by accident. She invited me for lunch. I don’t even know why I accepted. I suppose I hoped that it would take my mind off you. Help to make it…easier.”

Easier. You wonder which part of this was the easy one.

“I never intended for anything to happen between us. Not ever. But Helen she was—she was kind and gentle and so open.”

Oh, that one _stings_.

From all the things he’s said, this hurts the most.

Kind. Gentle. Open.

All the things you are not.

Because you had to kill and strangle those parts of yourself to survive.

Because you always wanted to be those things but _couldn’t_.

Helen must have been such an easy choice, and you can’t even blame him for it.

Who could ever want you? Without any catches, without judgement or reservations.

Who would when the world is full of wonderful, bright people like Helen?

John continues when you fail to respond. “I convinced myself that this would be for the better. That even if we tried, Tarasov would have killed you. That in the long run, we would both be happier. But maybe—I never _wanted _this life, (Name). But I wanted to do this differently. Properly. Then Tokyo happened and…”

He pauses, inhaling deeply, seemingly unable to continue on.

His head dips down and you watch his profile. Your hand lifts and you press your fingers to your lips, trying to smother the hurt that quakes your bones. 

“There was not one moment during those days when I didn’t wish you needed me as much as I needed you, John. Not _one_,” you voice tightly and press your lips together when they tremble. John looks up at you, his expression crushed, his eyebrows tightly knit. “You should have told me. But you made the decision on your _own_. What if I wanted to try anyway? Wanted to fight for what we had?”

“He would have killed you—”

Something creaks, and then snaps.

“_And you should have told me_!”

It explodes right out of you, vicious and quick.

You practically jump to your feet, unable to sit still. But you don’t go anywhere, you simply stand there, staring at him wide-eyed.

John watches you for a beat before bowing his head. Something hot churns in the pit of your stomach at his continuous silence.

“I know,” he utters. “I know it was selfish of me but I thought I was protecting you.”

Protecting you.

He did. You know that. But in so many ways by protecting you from one demon, he left you alone to face an entire hoard of them. So many even more dangerous than Tarasov ever was.

The next question is so soft, so unguarded, you almost hate yourself for asking it.

“Did you ever, even for a moment, actually love me?” 

John’s head snaps up to you so quickly, you’re surprised you don’t hear his bones snapping. “You know I did. You matter more to me than—”

His voice cracks and he rises to his feet with a frustrated sigh. The way he fidgets with his ring catches your attention before his fingers slip out of sight.

“Tell me about Tokyo,” you insist before he can say anything else in regards to your pathetic question. “Santino said that you broke a deal between you. What kind of deal?”

For a moment, you think that John will press further. But perhaps he realises how fragile this situation is. How easily it can all fall apart and he still has things that need saying because he indulges you.

“Winston called me one day. Said that he hasn’t heard from you in days,” he starts, uneasy, like the memory is painful for him. You can’t help but wonder how bad it will get if he looks so apprehensive already. “That something might be wrong. I went to Viggo and he confirmed that you have gone off the grid. A mission gone wrong. He wasn’t sure if you were alive or dead. I asked for permission to find you but he denied me. He said the potential power conflict wasn’t worth it if you were stupid enough to get caught. Winston couldn’t get involved so I had only one other option left. Santino demanded a Marker and—”

“And?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, faint.

John’s shoulders curve downwards. His voice now is raspy, both pained and hushed. A lump in your throat grows larger as he comes to a stop in front of you. Back where you started only minutes ago. 

“And he suspected that Yakuza might retaliate just like Viggo did. So a deal was struck,” he reveals, tracking your reactions carefully. “If you’re still alive, he gives me the resources to get you out and I pass you to him. He would place you under Camorra’s protection until things settled. In terms of power, his family is one of the very few that could withstand any potential conflict. But when I found you—”

You were broken and cracked and destroyed beyond repair.

John continues and the pain in his voice feels like a stab right into your beating heart, twisting deep. “You were hurt so badly I—I couldn’t. I killed them all and had no intention of leaving you again,” he exhales heavily and meets your stare before adding, “So yeah, I broke the deal with Santino because I didn’t trust him. Because I worried that he might use your vulnerability against you. To manipulate you.”

Back then, you won’t have put it past Santino to do _exactly_ that.

The sly, conniving man that he is. 

But he reacted to Tokyo in a way you didn’t expect.

A part of you knows that neither did he. 

“And you didn’t think once to tell me about any of this?” you pose quietly because talking is so difficult now. “To tell me about Helen sooner instead of hiding secrets? Instead of _lying_.”

You’re so tired.

So very _tired_.

You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever find peace at this rate. Or if you’ll always be stuck in this cycle. Over and over again. Without end.

John reaches out and for a moment his fingers hover over your cheek. You’re grateful that he doesn’t touch you, though something in his expression tells you that he wants to. “You were hurt. I was afraid that if I told you—”

His fingers drop away.

“I wanted to do this right. Wait till you recover fully. Sit you down and explain everything,” he says softly, and his soft dark eyes watch you sadly. “I knew what this sort of news will do to you. I saw how much you struggled. It was never about keeping it from you. So when you found my phone, I knew you would hate me. I figured it would be easier for you to forget me if you did. Easier to let go, so I left.”

You look away, your eyes starting to burn no matter how hard you try to blink the sensation away.

“Left because I knew that you will recover and succeed in this world,” he states, and even if you can no longer see his expression, you feel his attention focus on you. “Because you’re the strongest person I have ever met. And I hoped that one day, maybe, we would meet again and I could explain it to you. That we could rebuild.”

Rebuild.

As if it could ever be that simple.

You want to. You want to believe in the idea of having him back in your life but—

But you don’t _trust_ him.

And that’s the problem. You can’t trust him anymore.

That gaping hole inside your chest aches and your expression crumbles as you turn away from him. Pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes, you digest his words silently.

It’s quiet for so long that it doesn’t surprise you when John’s unsure voice finally reaches you again. “Say something, (Name).”

It’s a plea.

A gentle plea that rips and shreds whatever little composure you still have left. Whatever little self-control and discipline you have managed to gather over the years.

“What do you want me to say, John? That you hurt me? That it hurt when you left? Because I assure you did a lot fucking more than just _hurt_.”

You spin around to face him, your hand dropping away from your face and he inhales at the venom in your voice, at the way your voice weakens and cracks.

“You destroyed my heart,” you choke out harshly, and now that the words are coming out, that he’s in front of you, you can’t _stop_. It comes out as five years of fear, and anger, and hurt that’s been repressed for too long. “You tore my trust, my hopes and dreams, to _shreds_. You made me lose my way completely. Because of you, I had to fake a smile and a laugh for years. Because of _you, _I can’t let anyone else in. Because I’m fucking terrified that they will leave me too. That I will never be good enough for them to just _stay_. Because _you_ never stayed.”

He tries to touch your shoulder but you jerk back roughly. You’re practically gasping for breath and his figure blurs.

Tears.

You can’t recall the last time—

“You taught me the lesson of never letting anyone close again, so I’m never hurt the way _you_ hurt _me_,” you gasp loudly, and the words stutter inside your chest briefly. “I lived_ so long_ just—just hoping to forget you and everything that’s ever happened between us. Because of you, I’m empty, and I blame others for the fact that I can’t trust them but it’s _me_. _I’m_ the problem. You took it from me. That hope. My—my ability to love and trust and dream. Why did you take it, John?”

The tears finally spill, hot and wet, as they trail down your cheeks and your hands press against your face, trying desperately to wipe them away, hide them from him.

_“Why_? Why did you have to leave me when I n-needed you so much?” you sob, your body shaking and everything crumbles and caves inside your chest. It’s like a glass that’s been filling for years finally overflowing. No matter how hard you try to turn off the tap, ebb the flow, it won’t stop. “Why didn’t you just _stay_? I loved you so much.”

His arms wrap around you. You try to shove him away, but he’s stronger or perhaps you truly are that weak.

Another sob rattles free from your chest, violent and raw, tearing from deep inside your throat. Your arms feel clumsy as you try to push against him but his grip only constricts, holding you closer.

“I’m sorry, (Name),” he breathes against your neck, his voice raspy with anguish. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know that I never—I never meant to do this to you. I’m so sorry.”

You stop fighting.

You let him hold you.

You’re so very, very tired now.

_ **. . .** _

For a thousand things said, there is a thousand more unspoken.

Yesterday had been a big step.

A step in clearing the air between you and you know that it’s done you both good, even if the timing of it had not been ideal.

Emotions had to be pushed aside quickly to make room for preparations.

Still, John held onto you for a long time, and a part of you can’t help but wonder if it was as much about comforting you as it was about comforting himself.

The question burns at the tip of your tongue but now is hardly the best time to ask it.

The catacombs are as dark and cold as you expected them to be. The air is dense and dusty, almost heavy with lack of fresh oxygen this deep underground. Together you cut through the tunnels, both of you clad in dark suits that will hopefully keep bullets at bay.

Because you doubt there is any other way this can go.

The thought of what you’re walking into right now only exhaust you more, drains you more. The invisible edge beneath your feet crumbles just a little bit more.

Below, gaping darkness awaits.

You’ve been lost in that darkness once before.

You don’t want to go back.

Trying to push your dangerous thoughts away, you focus on counting your steps, the shadows dancing a menacing tango across the shallows of these tunnels. 

“What is it?”

Your head twists towards John and even though his features are mostly hidden by darkness, you can hear his concern.

You’re distracted, restless, and it shows.

Every edge of your usually careful calm is frazzled.

“It’s nothing,” you lie smoothly because it’s so very easy to do so now. “It’s just…when you left. I stayed with Camorra for almost a year. Worked for them in exchange for their protection. Gianna and Santino have told me stories about the Catacombs. They said the tunnels were haunted by all their dead ancestors. It’s a bit surreal actually being down here.”

He digests your words, and you feel his intention to delve further into the topic but you don’t have the will to talk about the D’Antonio siblings right now. Not when—

The edge cracks just a little bit further.

“Come on,” you say before he can speak. “We should hurry.”

It only takes you another few minutes of silent walking to reach the party.

It’s loud and bright and extravagant.

Befitting Camorra though it clearly lacks the traditional edge these affairs usually have.

Camorra is all about soirees and parties very few are invited to.

Maybe Gianna is truly trying to bridge the gap between the two worlds.

Maybe inviting you was truly about waving a flag and calling for a truce. Perhaps, now that Giovanni is dead, her desire to see Santino is less about insulting him, belittling him for not getting the seat, and about doing their own rebuilding instead.

It’s a nice thought.

But you know Gianna.

Even if she does want those things, there must be some benefit to her. Of which there are many when it comes to the possibility of a renewed friendship between you three. Except once she had that friendship. Once, you thought that she and Santino can be brother and sister again. That with time you can help them trust each other again.

You stand beside John as you track the woman and her loyal guard across the immaculate lawn while music blares loudly.

Cassian.

You’ve been trying very hard not to think about what this will mean to him.

It makes you feel like a traitor just thinking about his reaction.

John looks towards you but you don’t meet his stare. Instead, you simply dip your head in agreement.

This is it.

No more running.

Everything has a price.

You are here because John is here. John is here because Santino called in his Marker. Santino created the Marker as a punishment towards the man who wronged you.

On and on it tangles—this endless web of pain and choices and consequences between you.

Following them is easy. 

You are quiet as the shadows that hide you, watching Gianna fix her makeup in the bathroom mirror.

The space is vast and tastefully decorated with dark wood and golden accents everywhere you look. Muted lights illuminate the space and a large running pool of water sits in the middle of the room that you know runs hot water regardless of the time of day.

Right now, you’re grateful for the delicate trickle of the bathwater that drowns out your unsteady breaths.

Gianna shifts, straightening, every bit the deadly, brilliant woman you remember her as and halts.

For behind her stands the Reaper, his face full of regret and sadness. 

“John,” she voices, her surprise clear and her eyes snag on the dark corner where you still linger, unable to move. “V.”

You hate the slow understanding already filling her elegant features at your presence.

“Hello, Gianna.”

You want to move but can’t, it doesn’t matter though. Gianna, as always, makes the first move.

“There was a time not so long ago in which I considered us friends,” she states frankly, turning around and her glittering gown sparkles like stars, her fur overcoat only adding to her stunning but deadly appearance.

You’ve always admired her. Envied her in many ways, though she always laughed softly at such admissions.

John moves closer, his steps heavy with dread but the grip on his gun doesn’t loosen. 

“I still do.”

Gianna’s lips twist, the look in her brilliant blue eyes glacial. “Yet here you both are,” she says, unimpressed. “Death’s very emissary and the Serpent in the garden.”

Her eyes shift to you, still standing in the shadows of the lavish bathroom suite and your throat closes up at her scrutiny.

She stares at you as if challenging you to step back, to hide from her.

But you won’t. You are here because you respect her more than that, regardless of what may have transpired between you years ago.

You step into the light and Gianna’s cold expression eases a touch. Her chin tilts and she acknowledges you in her own proud way. Not that you would expect anything else from her. 

“I know why you are here, V,” she says knowingly even though the scathing twist of her mouth doesn’t drop. “But the question is what brought you back, John?”

“A Marker.”

That gives her a pause. “Held by?”

“Your brother.”

Gianna’s coolly composed expression fractures for a moment. In it, you see her dawning understanding, all the remaining pieces dropping silently into place inside her clever mind. Her eyes drag from John to you again, and you already know what she will ask next. “Did you know?”

Your quiet breath is more of a wheeze. “No. I did not,” you mutter tightly. “Not till recently.”

She stares at you for a beat, no doubt weighing the honesty of your words before her attention swings back towards the man in front of her.

“Tell me, John,” she begins, her gaze thoughtful, her thoughts racing. “This Marker, is it how you got out?”

John shakes his head, and you speak before he can. “It was for me. For Tokyo.”

Gianna blinks once, her lips parting in understanding.

“_Tokyo_. All this, and yet you still left,” she goads, a touch smug. “For an outsider, if I’m not mistaken. Tell me, what was her name? The woman who is responsible for all this pain.”

John seems almost reluctant to part with it. “Helen.”

“_Helen_,” Gianna repeats mockingly, pitching her voice into an almost dreamlike tilt as she moves closer towards the Boogeyman. “This Helen…was she worth the price you now seek to pay? Was she worth all the pain you have caused?”

You’re not sure you’re breathing as you watch John hesitate before nodding his head once.

Gianna’s eyes slide towards you knowingly and you meet her stare, holding it for a few moments. 

“Now, let me tell you what happens when I die,” she speaks calmly, seemingly completely unaffected by what she now knows is the end. Her end. “Santino will claim my seat at the table. He will take New York, and you two will be the ones who have gifted it to him. Though I suppose it is what you always wanted, isn’t it, piccola vipera?”

Your heart clenches at the old nickname she always used to call you.

You take a step towards them, and then another, every step as shaky as the last.

“I never wanted this to happen, Gianna,” you whisper weakly, trying to keep your expression calm. “I’m sorry.”

She almost glides towards you and you’re not surprised when she leans close, her fingers ghosting over your cheek. Just like her brother, she touches you freely because they seem to both believe in the intimacy of the most simple kind. Sometimes full of desire, sometimes of affection, sometimes of simple compassion and friendship. 

“I gave you that invitation because I had hoped we can be friends again,” she says and you hear the accusation there, no matter how finely laced it is into her delicate words. “I had _hoped_ but I was foolish. I should have done things differently, I see that now. Fought for your loyalty before my little brother managed to steal it. Tried to take you away from him before you started to care for him,” she whispers, her words growing colder as her fingers brush over your bandaged ear, and she adds a tart, “_Hmm_. No matter.”

Her expression stutters, any warmth in her eyes fading as she pulls back abruptly, pushing past John as she approaches the sinks. She stares at herself in the mirror before ripping her fur coat off her body and dropping it on the floor. Her hands rest over her waist, and you’re not sure if she’s simply angry, debating what to do, or if she is trying to hold herself together.

She turns towards the running bath, taking a few steps towards it before she reaches behind herself to unzip her sparkling dress.

John tracks her every move with predator’s intensity.

You stand a step behind him and watch silently as the scene before you unfolds.

The dress slips down, pooling at her feet, leaving the woman before you completely nude. Her hand slides inside her luscious dark hair, and she tugs loose the brooch holding her curls in place. She traces over the intricate design of the brooch as she steps into the bath, the water inside sloshing around her feet.

“What would you Helen think about this, John?” she wonders bitingly, coldly, looking up at the man. “What would your Helen think about _you_? Hm?”

She places the honed edge of the brooch against her wrist and drags it down.

“Gianna—” you gasp out, stumbling towards her.

Her eyes snap to you and you halt, watching in horror as she does the same to her other wrist.

Red rains down, falling into the water below like a river of rubies.

“Why?” John asks, confused, as he comes to stand beside you.

She turns towards you, folding her arms as her body becomes a canvas of scarlet, and gives John a look that is every bit her brother and father. That D’Antonio pride mocks him openly, wickedly, and her lack of fear only makes this harder.

“Because I lived my life my way, and I will die _my_ way.”

She trudges through the water, her knees shaking and you hurry towards her, your arms locking around her as she stumbles, sliding down and deeper into the warm depths.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice is a wrecked whisper and her fingers sink into your dark suit sleeves. 

“Do you still hate me, piccola vipera?” she wonders faintly, her icy eyes finding your own as you hold her up, slanting over the bath.

John’s footsteps drawing nearer are distant as you focus on the woman in your arms. 

“No,” you breathe with a pained smile. “I never did. I was disappointed. Hurt. Our friendship was real to me.”

A brief smile appears on Gianna’s face, her finger smoothing over the velvet material absentmindedly. 

“I will not apologise for what I did,” she tells you bluntly and you almost laugh though you want to sob more. Just as expected. “I thought it was best for me and my goals. I know you understand,” she remarks before tilting her chin in your direction so she can see you clearly. “I always knew that you would side with my brother.”

But you only shake your head in reply; a sad, feeble motion. “That isn’t it. I was against this,” you tell her because she needs to know, needs to understand why things ended up as they did. Because she deserves better than to die not knowing revenge has been served. “But Santino didn’t call the Marker in just for the seat. Chicago, Gianna. Chicago all those years ago. That was us. Someone knows. The Black Dragon has marked us for death and sent the Lovers after us.”

An indistinct exhales slips free and her eyes spark with understanding, with ruthless sort of satisfaction. 

“I always suspected,” she murmurs with a sliver of a smirk gracing her features. “It was about revenge.”

John lowers himself on Gianna’s other side but you can feel his eyes drilling into you.

“Swear to me,” the woman demands abruptly, her nails sinking into your arm.

“What?”

She’s always been strong. Perhaps not physically but in sheer will. So it doesn’t surprise you when she finds enough strength in her body to tug you to her, her lips pressing against your ear.

“Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone.”

Her harsh, hushed words wrap around something inside your heart, yanking with a strength that makes you flinch. You pull back, staring at her wild expression.

She looks so pale, but her eyes rage.

“I will—”

Gianna’s lips twist into a snarl—a break in composure you have never seen from her.

“_No_. I am the blood of old Camorra. You _will_ swear it,” she hisses with a laboured breath, her fingers trembling around your arms. “On your life, on your honour, on your name. I will not have any less than that.”

Your eyes close, squeezing tightly, before you open them again, giving her a serious look.

“I swear it,” you exhale, forcing the tremble in your voice to steady. “The word of old Camorra. From me to you. I _swear_ it.”

You are not Camorra. You are in no real position to give to her this oath, and coming from you it means close to nothing but—

But Gianna knows that you would never swear something like this unless you meant it with your entire being. Because she knows that you respect their values. For her, for her family, there is no higher vow.

Her grip on you loosens, her stormy features easing, as if that promise has given her reassurance she needed to find peace.

For a few breaths, it’s quiet. The pool of crimson keeps growing.

John, who’s been silent the entire exchange, reaches out, gently folding his fingers around Gianna’s other hand. He squeezes her fingers between his own and a brief, cool smile flashes across the woman’s face.

“Good. It seems like Papi was right,” she notes, her words growing milder, tenuous. “He was right.”

You’re not sure you can speak, but John does. 

“Right about what?”

Gianna’s lashes flutter a few times before she opens her eyes, slanting her head weakly in your direction.

“After Santino failed to bargain with my father…he went to Tarasov anyway. To demand your freedom like I told you,” she divulges with a cutting little smile. In power till the very end. “And I remember my father looked at me when he found out and _laughed_. He laughed, and he said, ‘He is more like me than I realised. He would let this whole world burn to ash, as long as she’s the one standing beside him in the flames.’ That tipped the balance and won me the seat. Because we do not know how to love by halves and father knew that. Our love burns brighter than the sun, and I _warned_ you what will happen if you earn his.”

Did Santino really disobey Giovanni and went to Tarasov despite his father’s refusal? Did it cost him the seat—

A shudder rolls through Gianna’s body and she slumps slightly, making you tighten your grip on her. Your fingers find her hand, gripping them desperately between your own. Her hand is already growing stiff and cool and your stomach coils.

You hold her close, ignoring the way your sleeves sink into the bloody water as a result. She grows weaker with every exhale and your eyes burn when you bury your nose against her hair. Her favourite Chanel perfume tickles your nose and you choke on your breath.

“I’m sorry, Gianna, I’m _sorry_.”

Her fingers squeeze around yours, just barely, her thumb tracing a small circle against your skin. “Will you weep for me, _hm_?” she murmurs slyly, her voice barely audible. “Lovely, silly girl. Remember your…vow.”

And then she’s gone.

You cling onto her, your nose buried in her silky hair as you breathe heavily through gritted teeth.

“(Name).”

John’s voice is kind, patient, but you hear the reminder there. You’re here to do a job. You can’t linger for longer than necessary.

But it’s hard to let go.

Even if she’s gone now.

John’s fingers settle on your shoulder, squeezing slightly.

Your feet keep slipping from that crumbling edge. The darkness below hums your name. A mix of voices that blend together.

_You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose._

Stiff and reluctant, you let go, allowing John to tug you back.

Tears sting your eyes but you don’t let them fall this time.

Gianna would be disappointed in you if you cried.

Inhaling, you stand to your feet, turning away from the still body as you wait for John to finish this.

A trickle of water—

_Bang._

Your eyes snap shut, your expression twisting.

It’s serene, the silence that follows. 

“We should go,” you inform him without turning around. “Someone is bound to come looking soon.”

You start walking away but John’s fingers latch onto your sopping wet arm, halting you. You jerk away from his touch, biting out a warning, “Don’t.”

You don’t want to talk right now.

You don’t want anything right now.

John doesn’t try to touch you again, and you know that this is hard for him, too. 

The deafening rhythm of music washes over you both the moment you exit the bathroom and you lead the way, your shoulders stiff and expression wavering.

“Let me go first,” you say, glancing at him fleetingly over your shoulder before hiding your expression again. “Make sure the path is clear, I’ll meet you by the entrance to the catacombs. Don’t linger.”

Before John can say anything to contradict your statement, you stride into the hefty crowd of intoxicated guests. Most are tipsy. Others have that familiar glazed look in their eyes that tells you alcohol wasn’t their choice of poison this evening.

The music pounds with the beats of your heart and your shoulder knocks against someone. You ignore the contact, pushing past the moving bodies blindly.

It’s so hard to breathe. You’re out in the open air but you feel sick.

Changing your direction, you head east—

And twist your body immediately, hiding your face in the swarm of bodies.

_Shit_.

Of course.

You shouldn’t be surprised to see them here. After the ceremony, they would have officially served Gianna.

The other half of Camorra’s Elite Guard stands ahead of you at the edge of the crowd.

Julian and Dario linger on the outskirts, chatting between themselves though their eyes lift on occasion, scanning for any threats.

Julian is shorter from the two, his frame more athletic. His dark hair is neatly styled back for the occasion, and his equally dark moustache twitches whenever he speaks. His hands are folded in front of him and even from this distance, you can see the gleaming Camorra rings and dark tattoos on his hands.

Dario, by comparison, is a mountain of strength and muscle. The length of his long hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands brushing against his cheeks whenever his head turns from side to side every few minutes. His broad frame towers over most guests here as he stands with his hands in his pockets, and you slant your body downwards, using the numbers and the darkness for cover.

Unlike the rest of the security detail, they don’t stick out.

In fact, they could be guests simply having a good time but you know better.

These men are as dangerous as they are unremarkable at first glance.

Or they would be if they weren’t some of the deadliest you have ever met.

Step, at least, is nowhere to be seen. A small blessing. The youngest member of the guard seems to have a bizarre sixth sense when it comes to locating you just about anywhere.

They can’t see you.

This is not a confrontation you can afford right now. 

Shoving the people out of the way, you trek back when multiple gunshots pierce the air deafeningly. 

_Shit_.

People scream, scattering, and you push harder against the mob as you try to force your way towards the epicentre.

By the time the crowd spits you back out, you notice the back of Cassian’s powerful body disappear in the direction of the bathroom and your stomach sinks.

Oh no.

Guards dash east, chasing after someone, happy to ignore you in the chaos. For a second, you debate your choices before you peel after the guards.

Tracking John’s progress is easy.

You follow the trail of bodies he leaves behind.

It’s when you reach the catacombs that you suspect something is very wrong.

John is not here to greet you. Gripping your pistol in one hand and a sharpened blade in another, you cut across the darkened tunnels.

Gunfire explodes in the darkness ahead and you freeze, your eyes narrowing.

Moving quicker, it doesn’t take you long to stumble upon the first body. You use your foot to nudge the body over, levelling your pistol on it just in case.

You recognise that gear.

Camorra’s men.

Specifically those under Ares’ command. 

“_Fuck_.”

This time, you run. Cutting through the tighter, side tunnels, you try to get ahead to cut off any potential attackers.

You’re grateful that yesterday instead of going to your room to be miserable and pathetic, you pulled yourself together enough to study the layout plans.

Pushing through a small opening, you round the corner—

A barrel of a gun appears in your face, and you throw your arm in front of you too, your own pistol ready. It takes a split second for the face in front of you to register.

You tackle him to the side, a bullet sailing past his head as you both fall to the dirty ground with a painful thud.

John is calm as always though, steady, and reloads his weapon smoothly. That cold calculation behind this calm used to chill you once upon a time. But not anymore.

His head rises slightly over the crumbling pillar and your fingers sink into his shoulder, dragging him back down with a furious scowl. 

“Get down!” you snap, searching your pockets for the familiar coolness of your vials. “Go, now. I’ll handle this. Get to the Continental. Go, John!”

His eyes snap to you and the glimmer of anger you see there tells you that he understands what you’re doing.

That you know it’s Ares’ and her men attacking.

_I’m your insurance policy._

You are.

But you will not let John slaughter the very men you know, either. Who might have helped you in the past, who you might have joked and talked with. Who you might know by name and face and life struggles.

You will certainly never let him lay a hand on Ares.

You’re his insurance but you are also a buffer. Between both sides.

John hesitates for a long moment and you know he considers refusing you in that instance, but perhaps whatever he sees on your face motivates him to nod his head and pass a spare pistol to you. You only shake your head, giving it back to him.

Few shots hit the pillar hiding you, and dense dust rains down onto your head and you frown in annoyance.

You roll the canister between your hands and gesture for him to go.

He hesitates again but ultimately listens, the entire exchange lasting no more than 30 seconds.

You wait till John rounds the corner before throwing two canisters over the side of the pillar, a stray bullet skimming over your arm but your suit holds, nothing but a faint tickle of pain following.

The vapour explodes with a hiss, the paralyser spreading through the cramped tunnels quickly.

Confusion follows, a few mentions of your name sounding before the paralyser robs them of their speech. You hear some fall back, an order clearly issued and you raise your gun, standing to your feet as you appear from behind the pillar.

You count at least six on the ground but they will be fine soon enough.

And there, on the other side of the tunnel, you just make out the familiar lithe frame of Ares. You can’t see her face with the darkness and the vapour but you know she is having the same issue. She raises her hand sharply—

An order to cease fire and retreat. But even though you cannot see her face, you can feel her hard stare digging into you.

She didn’t know you would be here. You didn’t tell anyone.

Not even Santino. Who no doubt still believes that you are safe behind the New York Continental walls, simply stewing in your anger.

The vapour crawls across the tunnel and Ares disappears from your line of sight, the rest of the men that are still unaffected following after her.

She knows how your paralysers work, she will come and collect the remaining immobile bodies later.

At least they’re alive.

Which they won’t be if you had allowed John to deal with them.

John.

Pivoting on your feet, you dash in the direction he disappeared in, racing after him.

He should be well on his way to the Continental now, if not there already.

You take longer than anticipated to get back. Your body is still recovering from the fight with Lucien despite your instance that you were fine. That deadly speed you’re so used to wielding as one of your most detrimental weapons has been dimmed.

You wonder how much of it is physical and how much of it is mental.

Racing up the stairs, you push past the doorman who opens the door for you and rush inside, looking around, trying to locate John.

As if that thought summons the Boogeyman, a crash sounds from the left, glass breaking as two figures crash into the foyer. They slide across the gleaming marble, struggling to get their hands around each other and you dash towards the two familiar men.

Cassian has an upper hand as he wrangles for control, trying to get a grip on the weapon between him and John.

John struggles for breath, his expression tight, focused, and you drag your gun up, pressing it against the side of Cassian’s head.

The man stills and relief shines in John’s eyes when he spots you from the corner of his eye, even if he clearly knows better than to look away from Cassian. 

“Don’t even think about it,” you warn harshly.

Cassian angles his head slowly, taking a peek at you, his expression furious. “Would you shoot me, _little sister_?”

You press the barrel deeper into his dark skin.

“Don’t make me.”

The tension between you is suffocating as the man glares at you.

“Gentlemen!” Julius’ loud voice cuts through the lobby and you ignore the security that surrounds the three of you. “_Lady_. Need I remind you that there will be no business conducted on the Continental grounds?”

The older man sounds more than a little displeased.

Your jaw clenches but you lower your arm, stepping back.

Cassian does the same, releasing his grip on John as he rises, still staring at you.

John is the last to stand but moves to your side at once, placing himself between you and Cassian. Normally, the gesture might have come off as protective but you don’t linger on it.

“No, signore,” Cassian says, his expression rigid, and the deep rumble of his voice bringing back months worth of memories.

Julius’ turns his attention towards you and John.

“No, sir.”

Your eyes lower and you simply shake your head.

Julius sighs, whether in relief or in chagrin, it’s difficult to say. “_Bene_. Now, may I suggest a visit to the bar, so you can calm yourselves?” 

His tone leaves no room for arguments.

_ **. . .** _

Gin. Bourbon. Water.

They arrive in that order.

You sit slumped beside John as your drinks come. He sat down in the middle seat without a word, blocking Cassian from your sight. A part of you is grateful.

The look the other man gave you earlier—

The ugly realisation, the rage, the _hurt_—

“I had a Marker.”

Cassian doesn’t hesitate. “Whose?”

John lowers his glass, staring at the bar counter.

“Her brother’s.”

It’s so hard to breathe.

You feel like slumping down and not getting up again.

The air lightens somewhat with John’s confession though. 

“I see. You had no choice,” Cassian concludes, his voice husky and your shoulders coil when you feel him lean down to look at you over John’s body. “Doesn’t explain why _you_ are here, helping him.”

John’s expression grows colder at the accusatory tone but he doesn’t get involved. He knows better than that.

Exhaling lightly, you give him the truth. “The Marker was made because of me,” your words sound mangled, scratchy, but Cassian looks unmoved by your struggle. You understand. You do. The agony of his loss is still too fresh. “For Tokyo. I didn’t know about it, and I was against this. I didn’t want this, Cassian.”

The other man scoffs; a cold, pitiless sound, his anger sparking anew.

“Didn’t you?” he demands, his tone stony. “Even after what happened with Gianna?”

You turn to face him, your grip on the glass between your hands weakening.

“She was my friend.”

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw flutters and he swallows, his stare finally leaving you.

“Why did he do it? Her seat?”

John is the one who responds. “Yeah.”

Cassian lifts the drink in his hand closer to his face, taking a small sip.

“He’ll get it now.” 

“Yeah.”

You don’t say anything.

Santino finally has the one thing he’s always desired above all else.

He is Camorra now. Once his coronation happens, he will take the second seat at the High Table, and very few will have the power to challenge him then. He’s carved himself into the perfect position of ultimate power.

_Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone._

A shiver crawls down your neck at the unbidden memory.

You have sworn to Gianna.

On your life.

Santino is all that’s left of the D’Antonio name now.

“So you’re free,” Cassian voices after a lull of uneasy silence, his words measured. “Both of you.”

John hesitates, staring at his drink before he turns towards the man beside him. 

“Am I?”

Cassian’s reply is as flat as his expression. “No. Not at all,” he remarks easily. “You killed my ward. Someone I was close to and _you_ stood by and watched.”

The accusation hurts when his dark eyes jump to you and your lips press together. 

“You know I couldn’t interfere—”

The man lowers his glass to the wooden surface, the gesture too harsh to be casual. “But you could have stopped him,” he says point-blank, and you know he means Santino this time. Cassian has always believed that you hold sway over the heir. That you give him “good sense” as he once told you. “Did you even _try_?”

Does he really think so little of you?

Does he really believe that you could be so cruel?

“_Yes_,” you force out, your throat burning. “Yes, I did.”

John turns to face Cassian fully, hiding you from the man’s sight and it gives you precious few seconds to compose yourself.

Cassian makes a small noise at the back of his throat at that.

“An eye for an eye, John. You know how it goes.”

But no matter how hard you try to focus on the rest of their exchange, it feels like your head is being forced underwater again, the sounds around you blurring into a muffled, dull mess.

_Don’t be sad, my vicious viper. I’ll be seeing you again very soon._

You gasp under your breath, your water almost spilling over your fingers at the sound of Tarasov’s voice in your ear.

It’s just your mind, you remind yourself firmly, it’s not _real_.

Tarasov is dead.

Kishi is dead.

They’re _all_ dead.

And you are _not_.

Even if most days—lately—you feel like a walking, breathing graveyard full of ghosts. 

“—consider it a professional courtesy.”

Cassian is standing, and he’s striding away—

You almost fall out of your chair in the haste to run after him. But a figure catches your eye first, and you halt in your step, staring.

Ares regards you with an impassive expression, her hands rising to sign, but you only glare at her.

There is nothing to say.

You know how Santino does business.

No loose ends.

Ignoring her, you hurry after the man who just disappeared through the doorway instead. 

“Cassian, wait!”

He doesn’t so much as slow down. 

“I have nothing to say to you.”

His emotionless declaration is like a slap to the face but you march after him anyway, quickening your pace as desperation pulls on your tongue. 

_“Please_.”

This time, he stops.

He whirls to face you, open fury twisting in his expression and you hate the fact that you are partially responsible for the pain he now carries. 

“You _knew_,” he says, his words bitter as he looms over you. “You knew what she was to me. What she meant. All this because Santino wants power.”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes speaking. 

“We’re being hunted,” you tell him hurriedly, your words rolling off your tongue because he needs to know. “Chicago. Almost four years ago. That was _us_. We were responsible and someone out there knows. He did it to keep us alive. I’m _sorry_.”

Realisation. Just like with Gianna. He, too, is connecting the dots inside his head. Unlike Gianna though, there is no understanding, no softening of his features.

“Revenge, then,” he states flatly, his voice a rumble. “Others suspected but never had proof. But _you_.”

He takes a step closer and stares down at you.

For the first time since reuniting with him, you see your old friend back. Your stern sparring partner. Your teacher. 

“You, I considered as good as my own kin. A warrior spirit like my own,” he reveals, his words worse than angry, worse than hurtful. Cassian gazes down at you and looks _disappointed_. “I taught you, cared for you, protected you. And this is how you repay me, little sister? By taking someone I love away?”

The edge you are balancing on on crumbles further, your feet slipping and your expression falls apart.

“I never meant for this to happen, Cas. I—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I believe you,” he says mildly, his expression deceptively calm. “And it’s because of that belief and what you once meant to me that I will let you leave this city alive.”

You only peer at him, stung.

He reaches out, touching the side of your face and bends closer, pressing your foreheads together.

An old, familiar gesture of respect, of kinship, of care between two people.

“But if we _ever_ meet again,” he whispers softly, his words razor sharp. “I will kill you myself. Goodbye, little sister.”

He leaves you standing alone in the hallway.

Something inside your chest—the warmth, the happiness, the hope, you have painstakingly built up over the years—cracks, _cracks_, **_cracks_**.

_ **. . .** _

The journey back to your room is a blur.

Your fingers trail against the walls as you stumble along, steadying yourself, anchoring yourself.

The door closes with a click, and you gasp for breath, the back of your head hitting the door as you slide down onto the floor.

Your hands press over your face and you breathe.

In and out. Uno, due, tre.

_You’re dead to the world._

_I’m not. I’m not. I’m free._

“I’m free,” you whisper, your words muffled by your hands. Fragile. “I’m _free_.”

Because the Administration has confirmed it.

The High Table has marked you down as an independent member of the Organization now. Viggo Tarasov is dead and so is his heir. By the table’s own rules, you are now free of your debt.

And yet, the leash around your throat has never felt tighter or more suffocating.

Your phone rings inside your pocket and you drag your palms down your face, blinking. Everything feels fuzzy and unfocused and—

_Santi_.

Your grip on the phone constricts, your hand quaking as you hold it close.

Gathering yourself, you croak out a strained, “Hello, Santino.”

For a beat, it’s still, but then you hear him exhale. “Are you hurt, bella?”

You can tell that this isn’t how he expected this conversation to start. Your voice, undoubtedly, gave you away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though you doubt you sound convincing. “Why are you calling?”

It’s not a kind question. But—

You want to rewind to a few weeks earlier. To when things were simpler between you. When despite how he often got onto your nerves, you always found yourself looking forward to your next encounter. Even if you never admitted it to yourself back then.

“You went with him.”

It’s a statement; guarded and low.

Ares must have informed him.

Of course, she did.

“Why would you go?” he adds after you don’t respond.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you press your forehead against your legs.

Your sleeves are still soggy.

You want to be angry.

You want to shout and rage at him.

But a part of you just wishes he were here instead. That he hadn’t created this situation and was here to help you now that you need him.

After all these years only Winston can read you as well as he can.

“Because you made this my business,” you remind him, and know you sound unhappy. “Because that Marker never should have existed, Santino. You have no one but yourself to blame for this. Congratulations by the way.”

It’s silent for a while after that. You listen to his muted breaths and count with them. You’ve done this before, a thousand times, listening to each other breathe. Safe in the knowledge that neither has to say anything for things to be comfortable.

“Does it make me so awful, hm?” he ponders gently, thoughtfully. “Wanting to live. Wanting _you_ to live. Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

That last part—

This time, you do feel anger, your momentary tranquillity fleeing.

_“Well done_,” you hiss lowly, pressing the phone harder against your ear till you can feel the skin begin to turn hot. “I’m sure Giovanni would be _very _proud.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” he shoots back hotly in reply.

A sob burns at the back of your throat but you don’t let him hear it.

You’re not sure if you’re more furious or just devastated.

“I held her as she died,” is your impossibly sad murmur. “I _held_ her, Santino.”

You know the naked pain in your voice hits him hard. The way the line goes utterly silent is telling enough.

“I always knew you would be against this, cara mia. I knew.”

His retreat. The way he was bracing himself for the inevitable in the days after your failed ambush.

“She deserved better,” you breathe, choked, and bury your face further into your lap. “Better than to have a bullet put in her head by her former friend.”

“I couldn’t lose you—”

“I’m not _yours _to lose, Santino,” you bite out, enraged. “My life…it’s not worth _this_. You’re destroying everything and you don’t even realise it.”

Neither of you says anything for a long, long time.

Something about this silence makes you sit up, makes you almost uneasy with nerves.

Still, Santino says nothing.

And nothing.

And—

“I was a _fool_. A fool to think that you could ever love me,” he admits and chuckles, his words warped, distant. “You’re right, (Name). You’re not mine. It was foolish of me to expect you to care. To ever place that expectation on you in the first place. I believed that if I just waited long enough…”

Your heartbeat kicks up a notch as you listen, biting your lower lip repeatedly.

“_Hm_. I’m not him. I will never be him,” he muses but it no longer sounds bitter or sullen. He sounds hollow. Like your conversation in Chicago, like when he came to you at the Continental after finding out he’s been made a Spare. Gianna’s words ring at the back of your mind— “Oh, (Name). I only ever wanted you to choose me as I chose you, bella. You are the only one I…”

Another pause.

“With this, I can finally give you the freedom you always dreamt of. It was worth any price for me,” he confesses before adding a knowing, desolate, “Even your hatred.”

He’s always expected the worst from this situation. He’s had time to prepare himself for this outcome. 

“You can have it all now. You are free,” he intones lightly, forcefully so. “So hate me, abhor me, curse me but know that I did it because I wanted you to live happily.”

He breathes out; something like a chuckle, pained as it is haunted. “Even if that life no longer involves me. _Addio, mia amata._”

You’re not sure how long you listen to the dead signal echoing in your ear.

_ **. . .** _

“—and now what’s hers is _mine_. Pray, I don’t ask for more.”

He’s in a foul mood and biting, swift Italian falls from his lips moments later as he watches Mr Akoni’s assistant walk away with a pinched expression.

Order.

Power.

Camorra.

The power is in _his _hands now.

And yet he feels—

“You _have_ been busy,” a familiar man voices by the way of greeting as he approaches the spot where Santino sits. Two guards are behind him and Santino tilts his head in consideration.

Winston.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to see him. The manager is comfortable in his power, in the control he has over New York, and in the past, Santino has been happy to let the older man indulge.

For you.

Because you care for the sharp-witted old fool. Because you respect him and if it wasn’t for the fact that Santino knows the man is at least fond of you, too, he would be far less inclined to have this conversation right now.

For you, he tries.

Your soft, sorrowful voice scrapes inside his chest. _I held her as she died. I held her, Santino._

He _loved _Gianna. She was his sister. But the devastation he might have felt at the news of her death…it doesn’t come.

A lifetime of scorn, betrayal, and mistrust lies between them.

Still, he wishes—

He doesn’t regret it. But he does wish there had been another way.

It’s true that he’s always intended to take the seat for himself. But he had no intention of it coming to such an extreme. 

Everything has a price though, and he has paid his.

Even if the steepest price is yet to be paid.

“It’s a start,” he notes calmly, trying for a smile as Winston comes to a stop in front of him. The club is a buzz of activity, cleaners and attendants mixing with his own guard. “My sister has grown derelict in her duties.”

He stands to his feet then, ignoring the borderline vexed look Winston tries to hide.

Truth be told, Santino has never cared much for what the man thinks of him. Now that he has set his sights on all of New York, he can’t help but think that their fundamental differences will become more apparent than ever.

“There was some...dust to blow away,” he adds lightly with a dismissive hum, stepping past the man with a wave of his hand.

He’s _trying _but right now he’s not in the mood to try _that _hard.

He will make it right. With time, he will make it right.

_You desperate fool, she doesn’t love you. She will never love you_, a voice that sounds too much like his father hisses at him, and he strangles it the moment it comes.

He knows that now.

He...knows.

You still love _him_. Helped _him_. Forgiven _him_.

It will always be John Wick.

Always.

And _yet_.

And yet, it’s kinder to pretend that you love him as well. That you _could_.

Maybe he’s truly never stood a chance. Maybe he fooled himself into thinking that what he’s felt for so long wasn’t so one-sided after all. That in these last few weeks something hasn’t fundamentally changed between you yet again. That finally—_finally_—what he feels is being returned. No matter how small in capacity.

He thought he meant it when he said that he would be fine with you hating him.

But he doesn’t want you to.

He hopes you won’t.

He’s so used to _taking, demanding, claiming_ that the concept of _letting go_ is completely foreign to him.

It’s a lot harder than he ever could have anticipated. 

So although he doesn’t particularly care as to why Winston is here, he starts leading the man into a more private spot to give them privacy to talk regardless. 

He strolls down the stairs slowly, knowing that Winston will follow as his hands slip into his pockets. Whatever the issue is, he would prefer it to be dealt with quickly.

“You can’t change everything at once,” the older man states from behind him. “There is a such thing as rules.”

Santino almost laughs, then.

_Rules_.

There are a great many things Santino wants to tell the man he can do with his _rules_. What have rules ever done for him other than gag him and make him miserable? Rules have taken his mother, rules have taken his father’s love, rules have taken the loving sister he remembers in hazy childhood memories, rules have kept you leashed to Tarasov for years; broken-hearted and alone.

He fucking _loathes_ rules. If he could he would set the whole rule book up in smoke and delight in the destruction of it all.

He hums, soft and mocking, and glances towards the man once before looking away. “Rules are meant to be broken, Winston,” he tells him dispassionately.

“Not to those who live by them.”

He knows Winston means you to an extent. Though a part of Santino can’t help but wonder how the old man would take the news of how _spectacularly_ you shredded the rule book in Chicago yourself. 

But more importantly, Winston means _him_.

Darling Johnathan.

For a brief second, Santino sees red. 

The hard-boiling feeling in the pit of his stomach spikes and the taste in his mouth sours.

The assassin’s refusal to honour the Marker, his unfounded rage at the gallery when they both knew that Santino had _every_ right to his actions.

John Wick might be a man of honour and conviction and rules, but he broke one of the most important ones with startling ease. Broke it even after Santino told him that it could help to keep you safe.

“We are not in your hotel anymore,” he states flatly, glancing towards the manager, and there is an obvious hint of ice buried deep in his words. “Do not speak to me like a child. I set the rules now. If I need room service or a martini, I’ll let you know.”

Winston leans back slightly at those words, a hint of surprise there but it disappears quickly, and the following understanding only makes Santino angrier.

He doesn’t have the capacity for civility right now.

He turns away from the older man, continuing his trek down the stairs.

“You have a problem with tradition.”

It’s not a question and Santino just barely holds back a scoff.

“Tradition,” he bites out softly. “Is the enemy of progress.”

But he will reforge Camorra into something better, stronger.

He will wield the power he now has to create something that will survive long after he’s gone.

“And here’s me thinking it’s the opposite,” Winston notes quietly but Santino ignores him.

He leads them into a private VIP lounge, sitting himself down on the sofa at once. The seat is plush and comfortable as he stretches his arms and folds his legs. He tries to relax his taut muscles, projecting an air of indifference because he abhors how knowing Winston looks whenever he glances his way.

The man in question strolls towards the giant Shiva statue, gazing at it thoughtfully.

One of Winston’s guards stalks forward, placing a familiar leather-bound book on the table before respectfully stepping back.

Santino stares.

“What’s this?” he questions coolly.

“He completed the task,” Winston says, his voice bland as he turns to face him again. “The Marker is over. Mark it.”

Ah, yes.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Winston considers John his friend as well, though Santino is aware that the relation has…cooled somewhat after John’s retirement. After what the infamous assassin did to you.

“If Mr Wick isn’t dead already,” he replies, his words clipped, but feels little joy at the thought. “He soon will be.”

Winston takes a step down the stairs, then another, and his expression is oddly familiar. That exasperation is one Santino has seen directed his way many times before even though this is far more refined. Professional.

“Will you mark it, _sir_?” Winston asks with a slight, mocking bow and a gesture of his arm.

Santino briefly considers taking the damn ledger and throwing it into the fountain just to see those pretty pages become thick and soggy with water. Decades of immaculately kept records disintegrating in a blink of an eye.

But he wants this done quickly, wants Winston out of his hair even more.

He has two psychopaths to hunt down, and a city to bend to his will.

He stretches out, grabbing the Marker and opens the device, staring at the bloody imprint there.

So easy.

It all could have been so _easy_ if John had just honoured the damn oath.

Santino may not be one for rules but what weighty reason did John have to refuse? None.

One job and then Santino would have never approached him after that. Would have preferred to never see him again, in fact.

Now though.

Now it’s as simple as repaying for the hurt he caused and the disrespect.

_You’re destroying everything and you don’t even realise it._

Santino licks his lower lip and presses his thumb against the tiny metal needle, feeling the sharp sting. He hesitates for a second, letting the ruby liquid gather before he presses his finger into the Marker and then the ledger a moment later. 

Marker completed.

“Whatever did V make of your little stunt?” Winston wonders suddenly, moving closer. His question is airy but the older man seems already amused by the possibilities. “I don’t imagine she was much impressed by your actions.”

Santino stills, and that slight hesitation costs him because Winston notes it at once and makes a sound at the back of his throat. Disbelieving, almost derisive. 

“My, my,” he begins mildly and Santino lifts his head to look at him. His own expression is strained and Winston’s amusement mounts. “You have no idea what’s coming, do you? Do you think she will let you do this? They may have had their issues in the past but don’t underestimate just how much she still cares for Johnathan.”

Santino’s mouth twists but it’s not a smile. “I am _not_,” he professes icily, and Winston’s eyes narrow at that, considering him. “But I have everyone in New York looking for him. I doubt we will see him again. So even if she hates me. It is done now. The Lovers will be dead soon enough as well and then…”

And then you are free.

_Truly_ free.

Even if you never see him again. Even if you will spend the rest of your days hating him—

It will be worth it.

He has to convince himself he will be able to live with that. With letting you go. With you hating him. 

Perhaps it’s for the better. 

“Do you now?” Winston muses with a raised eyebrow. “You stabbed the devil in the back and forced him into the life he has just left. Incinerated the priest’s temple. Burned it to the ground. Now that he’s free of the Marker, what do you think he’ll do?”

Santino doesn’t reply but the fury he feels churns in his stomach. As if John Wick needs someone else to stand in defence of him. Poor, old _Johnathan_.

“He had a glimpse of the other side, and he embraced it,” Winston continues smoothly. “But you signor D’Antonio took it away from him.”

“He was already back.”

Winston releases a short breath. “Oh, he came back for _love_, not for you.”

Love?

What _right_ does John Wick have to destroy in the name of his so-called _love_?

If that’s what love is, then he should set this world on fire for you. 

“He owed me. I had every right,” he hisses lowly, rising from his seat abruptly and feels the rage like liquid fire scorching through his veins. “Or have you forgotten what he has done? How he has dragged her into his messes over and over again? Have you forgotten what his actions have wrought, _hm_? ‘If she continues on like this, she will die.’ Those were _your_ words when you called me before the Chicago job. If it weren’t for what _we_ did, she would be gone and it would have been _his_ fault.”

“And what about (Name)?”

Santino exhales sharply at the quiet question, confused.

“What?”

Winston’s eyebrows arch and he stares at Santino for a few seconds. But there, carefully hidden behind that calm facade lays a question and a warning laced with piercing sort of ice.

“Should I be expecting a contract in her name as well?” Winston questions lightly with a slight curl of his lips. “You know full well that once she learns about this, she might turn against you. Grow to resent you for it. She will certainly not just stand by and let it happen. And if she turns away, betrays you, what then? Will you put a price on her head as well? If you can’t have her, no one can, is that it?”

Every word is merciless as it is piercing. Ruthlessly straightforward. Yet every single syllable rips at something inside him expertly, almost like finely measured knives sinking deep.

He’s been so focused on all the best case scenarios he has never taken a moment to consider the worst case ones.

Vengeance.

When John dies…

_I think that if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you._

He wishes more than anything that had been the case.

He wishes he was back in that awful, smelly diner with you and half-melted, too sweet ice cream between you. He wishes he had said more than _I believe it is because you adore me, no?_

He wishes he could pause that moment and stay in it forever because your lack of denial, the slight grin on your face, the soft crinkling around your eyes—all those details have created one of the happiest moments in his life.

Second only to his last birthday.

No father, no titles, no Tarasov, no John.

Just you, his home, and no expectations.

“I would never harm her,” he says and doesn’t recognise the thick timber of his own voice. “_Never_.”

The memory of you being dragged unconscious from the rubble of those destroyed tunnels, bloodied and still, haunts every single one of his nightmares now. Haunts his every thought, too.

_I’m not yours to lose, Santino._

He knows that too.

Winston is silent for a long moment, his judging stare drilling into him with such intensity it almost reminds him of his father.

The older man makes a small sound at the back of his throat as if weighting Santino’s words before reaching down and slamming the ledger closed, taking it into his arms.

“I’ll admit Mr D’Antonio,” he begins conversationally, glancing up and meeting his stare as he straightens. “When I first learned of your interest in V, I warned her against you. Repeatedly. I saw nothing more than another powerful, conceited man who believes that the world is his playground. Your track record tells a rather colourful tale of use and disregard, and she doesn’t need more pain in her life. I believed for a long time that your _care_ has been nothing more than a well-crafted manipulation. A game. That you are in it for the long con. But now, I confess, you have even _me_ wondering.”

Santino swallows, shifting under the man’s shrewd stare.

“For your sake,” he goes on coldly, tucking the leather book under his arm. “I hope that whatever you _do_ have with her is genuine. Because right now she might be your only hope. If you have _any_ to begin with,” he intones with an aloof expression and salutes him. “_Adios_, Santino.”

The man turns to go, and Santino remains standing in the same spot for a long time after he’s gone. 

_ **. . .** _

Hope is a foreign emotion to him.

He has grown up ruthlessly wringing it out of his heart.

Lessons about what it is to be Camorra, what it is to be an heir to an empire of bloodshed and death, were taught to him early. Ingrained into him when he should have been free to be a child. The very first came when he was still just a boy.

His mother’s _screams_—

“Why the long face?”

Santino blinks slowly, coming back to the present, and his head turns.

The smirking figure approaching him is at the bottom of the list of people he would like to see right now. Or _ever_.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he demands harshly, not in the mood for pleasantries. “You haven’t been summoned.”

Hector’s smirk stretches, the familiar bright blue of his eyes practically glowing in the candlelight as the man takes another long drag of his cigarette. He moves past the spot where Santino has been sitting since Winston’s earlier departure, and throws the remains of the cigarette into the fountain before turning to face him again.

“Summoned?” the man echoes, amused. “That’s _cute_. I’m here on orders.”

“Whose?”

Hector strolls closer, undoing his jacket button before he drops on the seat opposite to him, stretching till his legs come to rest on the table separating them.

Santino doesn’t bite though. The disrespect scrapes against his already worn temper but he leashes it. He will not give Hector the satisfaction.

“Your sister’s and the council’s,” the man responds and blinks innocently, his amusement barely contained. “_Oh_. My condolences by the way. Or whatever.”

Santino sits up unhurriedly, a mass of simmering rage. “Use that tone one more time and I’ll strip you of your title.”

Hector might have been his father’s beloved little pet, his right hand, but he has Ares. He could never imagine trusting anyone but her to be on his side. Even with the brunette’s displeasure with the unfolding situation.

Hector, despite his many talents, is not necessary to him personally.

“Oh dear, someone’s in a bad mood,” Hector drawls lazily, his lips stretching in delight. “But leave the threat making to V, yeah? The wildcat at least sounds convincing. Though the fact you didn’t know I’m in town is telling. Had a little spat, did you? Not a lovers’ spat because, well, you’re not really lovers, are you?”

Santino keeps his expression steely, unmoved, but Hector digs deeper, not that he expected the leader of the Elite’s to do any less.

“Wow, how long has it been now?” he muses loudly, even though they both know exactly how long it’s been. “Six years, was it? No wonder you’re such an uptight little bastard. Biggest blue balls of the century.”

Santino’s mouth curves into something unfriendly, biting. “That’s the second time,” he notes mildly. “There won’t be a third. Don’t forget who you answer to now, _hm_?”

“Not _you_. Not yet.”

Not yet indeed. But soon.

“What were your orders?” Santino questions instead.

The man before him fiddles with the lighter between his large fingers, his Camorra rings clicking dully against the metal. “To make sure you don’t do anything stupid but…my bad, I guess, huh?”

The council no doubt.

He faced quite the uproar after the news of his vow to you reached the family.

Gianna’s reaction had been simpler, more surprising.

_I’ve been expecting it, little brother. _

“You have new orders now.”

The strong curve of Hector’s eyebrows quirks. 

“Do tell.”

Santino wastes no time. “The Lovers. I want you to bring me their heads.”

Remove those deranged puppets from the game.

As for the Dragon. Oh, he has plans for them. Once he takes his seat, he’s going to tear the Dragon to pieces. He will find out who knows about Chicago and bury them all. One by one.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hector speaks up suddenly, still focusing on his lighter. When Santino doesn’t reply, the man lifts his gaze back to him and sighs, irritated. “Fine, let me rephrase: your pretty viper is better than those two French shitheads with loose marbles knocking around their heads. So what’s the issue? Why didn’t she just turn them into drooling goo?”

Because these last few weeks have been hitting you hard. Because he’s been trying to help you but that damned wall keeps him at bay.

Because there is a separation between you now. 

“There were…complications,” he phrases cautiously, his voice thin, guarded. “Things are, ah, difficult for her right now.”

Hector stares at him, considering his words before he snorts and sits up too, dragging his feet down from the table. He rolls the lighter between his fingers as he peers at Santino for a charged moment.

“Difficult, huh?” he repeats, his gravelly voice twisting his words into something meaner. “Well fuck me. You would think her life being threatened would inspire her to stop her pity party.”

Oh, Santino can take insults just fine.

He’s been hearing them directed his way all his life.

But _you_—

“_Careful_,” he warns, his tone icy, as something volatile churns in his stomach. “You speak about her like that again, and I’ll do more than strip your title.”

Hector falls quiet at that. For some time, the two of them simply gaze at each other, sizing the other up. 

“Tell me, _Santi_,” the man before him begins breezily, curious. “When exactly did you realise that you loved her? Hm? I mean, do you _really_ think this story is going to have a happy ending? Your father adored your mother. Sun rose and set with her but their story still ended in blood and death.”

He’s had _enough_.

Santino rises to his feet, his hands slipping into his pockets as he stares down at the man before him with a stony expression.

“You have your orders. And you _will_ obey.”

Hector’s head tilts to the side and he rises to his feet too, stretching to his full height.

He’s taller, and stronger, and could likely kill him with his bare hands, too.

But Santino finds that he doesn’t care.

Right now, with everything going on, he feels like he could crush this world in his bare fist and delight in the savagery of it all.

“Why?” the other man asks, his voice bored.

Santino smiles.

That calm that he’s seen you use so many times—the mask, the construct of control—he grasps onto it now.

He lets it guide him, cooling the volcano of raging fury inside of him.

“Because I am Camorra now,” he states calmly, pleasantly, still smiling and something flickers across Hector’s expression. Surprise, perhaps. “Because I do not care if you like me or respect me as your new boss. You will _obey_ because you are sworn to do so, _yes_? Because if you think even for a _second_ that I will tolerate your disobedience, then you are wrong. You may believe yourself to be above command, Hector, but _I_ _am_ the command now and I say that you _aren’t_. _È chiaro_, hm?”

Hector straightens, his wide shoulders rotating back.

Then the Devil of Camorra bares his teeth at him.

“You do like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” he says idly, his smile disappearing in a blink, leaving something more barren and brutal behind. “Well if you insist. _Boss_.”

The man brushes off invisible dust off the sleeve of his jacket and with another deride little smile turns to go.

_You have no idea what’s coming, do you?_

_Right now she might be your only hope. If you have any to begin with._

“Hector.”

The man pauses with an exaggerated sigh of impatience, turning to look at him over his shoulder.

Santino meets his expectant stare.

“One more thing.”

_ **. . .** _

“Are you okay?”

“No, John. I’m very far from okay.”

There isn’t enough strength in you to pretend that you are.

Yesterday was a nightmare that you want to wipe from your mind. So much so, that the usual joy you feel at being back in New York doesn’t come. Not even a whisper of it.

You’ve barely spoken more than few words to John on the flight back, and despite his silent worry, he’s been giving you room to sort through your thoughts.

You’re not sure what rests on your mind more heavily.

Gianna, Cassian or Santino.

It feels like a mix of all of them.

_I swear._

_But if we ever meet again, I will kill you myself._

_I was a fool, a fool to think that you could ever love me._

Your head is pounding and no thought seems to linger for longer than an inconsequential second at the time.

This morning you asked after Cassian but Julius has told you that the man has departed already. Ares, too, was absent.

“If you need a place to stay—”

Your phone pings, cutting John’s words off and you frown. You’ve just switched it on minutes prior before pushing it deep into your pocket to give it time to turn on and catch the signal properly.

You pull it out, opening the message, a slight frown contorts your features when you spot the number on your screen.

Then, horror locks every single muscle in your body, making you stagger to a stop with a horrified exhale.

-

**OPEN CONTRACT:** JOHN WICK

7 MILLION USD

**BY:** SANTINO D’ANTONIO

-

“No. No, no, no,” you mutter, your mouth dry, and a roar in your head. “What did you do, Santino? _What did you do?_ Why—”

John steps close, his hand coming to rest on your trembling one.

His wedding ring fills your vision and you flinch away from his touch.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t look at him, clenching your phone tighter in your fist as you breathe harshly.

“Santino opened a contract. For your head.”

He’s quiet for several moments.

“How much?”

His voice is gruff and when you meet his stare that familiar grimness on his face chills you.

No—

No—you can’t—

You force your tongue to move. “I need to talk with him.”

“_(Name)_,” John addresses you flatly, his dark eyes firm.

But you’re not listening because you know—

You _know_—

He will—

Why Santino? Why?

_I can finally give you the freedom you always dreamt of. It was worth any price for me, even your hatred._

“Get somewhere safe,” your words are a croak, frayed and hurried. “Lay low. I can—I can get him to take it back.”

John reaches for you again, his fingers settling against your forearm as he peers at you. He almost looks regretful.

“You _can’t_. You know you can’t,” he tells you but you only shake your head. “He didn’t listen before and he won’t listen now. There is only one way to get him to take it back now.”

You wrench yourself away from him, stepping back.

“_No_. He will. He will listen to me,” you whisper, a touch frantic, trying to force yourself to believe it. “He has to—he—he will listen to me. Just give me time. _Please_, John. I need to talk with him. Go. I’ll find you when it’s done. _Go_!”

You stumble backwards with every step and ignore John calling for you as you turn in the opposite direction, heading towards the penthouse instead.

Your phone feels slippery between your fingers as you try to dial Santino’s number, half-jogging through the streets.

The line rings, rings, ring—

“_Shit_!”

Dread flows through your veins as you hurry to text Ares number instead.

Your shoulder knocks against someone and you move to push past them—

Heat erupts around you, the shock wave of the thunderous explosion ripping you right off your feet.

Your body flies to the side, and the impact of your body hitting the nearby car rattling through every bone in your body.

White burns behind your eyes—

Then everything goes dark. 

_ **. . .** _

Humming drags you back from the depths of inky darkness.

You suppress a groan, your body growing taut when you realise that you can’t move your hands or legs.

They’re bound.

A shallow, barely controlled breath escapes you at the vicious stab of a too familiar memory.

You’ve been in this type of situation before. None of those times ended well.

The feeling of disorientation persists but you try to drag it away slowly; little by little, to get a better grasp of what your situation currently is.

Inside your head you count obsessively like a mantra, trying to keep yourself steady, grounded.

The humming continues; a gentle, melodic sound that would be soothing under different circumstances.

The bones in your neck creak when you slant your head upwards, blinking your eyes open. The left side of your temple is pounding from the impact with the car and you suppress an agonised groan.

The humming ceases at your shifting.

“And the sleeping beauty awakens.”

Gritting your teeth, you slant your head forward, and glare.

“Hello, _Lucien_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me a good “everything goes to shit” chapter :D
> 
> leave it to john to say more in this one chapter than he likely did in this entire fic combined lmao. but the J/V scene has been long in the making (and one of the biggest reasons for the block with this chapter because I knew it had to live up to the expectation so I hope it did ahhhhh). I also hope it didn’t seem too OOC for him to speak this much but he certainly is a man who speaks only when necessary and I still tried to carry his blunt manner across. Keep his story to facts only. 
> 
> as for santi, well, I dragged john’s character flaws through the mud and it’s only fair I do the same with him, too. santino’s actions are certainly _justified_ but it doesn’t make them _**right**_. 
> 
> and finally v. oh man, this has been building up for a while now but this is the chapter where you can really see the cracks starting to appear. she is in the worst possible position right now because she is directly in the middle of the conflict and has an emotional investment in all sides. she is quite literally being torn apart. please give her a hug. damn :/
> 
> wow, if you are still reading. thank you. thank you. thank you. these chapters are, as always, as much for me as they are for you. love you all lots and thank you for your support <33


	13. cor aut mors;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One look, and you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been a bit wild lately (understatement) so I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to reply to your comments. I hope you're all staying safe and healthy and please have this chapter as thank you for your support!! Please know that every comment matters a lot to me. As do kudos and bookmarks so <333 love you all!!

A smile twitches across Lucien’s mouth; a fleeting, haughty thing.

“Hello there,” he greets casually with a little wave. “How’s the head?”

Rotating your neck, you snap at the ties around your wrists, testing their strength. Pain flares through your wrists but the binds hold and you sigh, dragging your narrowed eyes to the tall, blonde man slowly approaching you.

It’s then that you notice where exactly you are.

Even through the pounding in your head, you recognise the too familiar warehouse. The drab, cold greyness of these walls where you and Santino where attacked only weeks ago.

Lucien grins at your delayed realisation, at your simmering rage, as he comes to a stop before you. You have to crane your head back to see his elegant features, meeting his stare head-on.

“Their first attempt was so poor that when I heard about it, I laughed,” he reveals knowingly with a small hum, and reaches out, his fingers touching your bandaged ear. He grips it lightly, a promise of pain scraping against your subconsciousness. “I heard you made that attempt look like they were toddlers. Which is why I’m so disappointed now. Frantic and distracted. You made this _easy_, you see, and I don’t _like _that. You’re different. What happened to you?”

You jerk your head from his grip, ignoring the sting of pain in your ear.

“_Don’t you fucking touch me._”

Lucien pauses, his hand still hovering beside your head. He takes in your laboured breaths and glassy stare with an inquisitive frown, and you wonder if your expression is as wild as you feel. You hate how he’s looking at you.

If your hands were loose you would wrap them—

“Oh. _Oh_,” he breathes quietly, blinking as if dazed. He leans down abruptly, his dark eyes two bottomless pits. The light in them is feverish. “_Look at you_. It’s the edge, isn’t it?”

His words rip through you, leaving you gaping before you manage to control your expression.

For a second, it feels like he’s right there with you, at that crumbling edge deep inside you.

It feels so bizarrely violating you almost flinch.

“You’re insane.”

Lucien smiles an angelic smile but the devil lurks beneath those sharp edges. “Sanity is a matter of perspective,” he hums pleasantly, leaning back, his stare still keen. “And I think you know exactly what I speak of.”

You don’t have time for this.

Santino.

John.

The contract.

Something inside your gut hollows out at the recollection.

You need to get out of here.

Right _now_.

“Where’s dear Mika?” you question sweetly, hoping that provocation will give you a chance as you subtly tug at your binds. “Won’t she get upset you have me all tied up and alone here?”

Lucien sighs deeply, giving you a look of a disappointed parent about to scold their child.

He steps to the side, walking around you and you still immediately, ceasing your shifting as he circles you.

“My beloved is recovering,” he explains unhappily and you don’t have to see his face to hear the frown on it. “Our last meeting was rather memorable, won’t you agree?”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your ear from behind. A beat. Then his fingertips ghost over your left temple. “I’m almost tempted to take your eye and gift it to her. But no..._no_. I need you hale for our next dance.”

He leans back, stepping into your line of sight again and you grit your teeth.

“Untie me, then,” you goad with a tilt of your chin. “Let’s go a few rounds.”

Lucien tuts, his dark clothes only bringing out the almost translucent paleness of his skin as he leans closer.

“No, you’re not there yet,” he says gently, his eyes inspecting you thoughtfully. “I don’t want this. I want you _over _the edge. I want to dance in the darkness where we are both equals. Just like we did for that one moment in the tunnels.”

His voice dips towards the end; almost an intimate caress.

But your head only tilts knowingly, and you grin sharply, “Is this the part where you torture me, Lucien? You may not like what’s left behind if you push me over the edge.”

It’s what the Lovers are known for after all.

Their rapid bloodlust.

The pale man shakes his head once, dismissive, but his eyes narrow slightly at the casual use of his real name.

“No, not at all,” he rebukes and takes a step closer, your knees almost touching. “You don’t fear pain, I can tell. You pass it out, just like I do. Who was it, I wonder?” his head tilts. “The one who taught you about the abyss below.”

God, he’s insane.

And you don’t have time for his idiotic ramblings.

The fact that you were frantic enough for him to take you this easily is already insulting enough. There is no one but yourself to blame and now—

Now you need to find a way to get loose.

The binds will hold. They clearly knew better than to leave any room for error. You can’t feel any of your weapons on your person, either.

Your coat, too, is missing.

You blink up at the man before you, wondering if you could possibly trick him into giving you what you want.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter and flash him another cool smile. “They’re both dead now. By _my_ hand. Just like you will be.”

A promise, not a threat.

He won’t rest till one or both of you are dead, and you won’t rest till he’s dead. Him and his deranged girlfriend.

Lucien doesn’t react to your words though.

“Could you kill me, I wonder?” he wonders instead, curious. “I bet it would be like killing yourself.”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up_ _—_

“We are nothing alike,” you hiss hotly, and this time your self-control creaks dangerously. “Despite what you would like to think. You’re—”

He explodes.

His hands slam against you as his fingers sink into your shoulder blades. 

“But we are. _We are_!” he practically screams into your face, a loose strand of hair brushing over his forehead. His fingers constrict, desperate, but he manages to suck in a few calming breaths. “The only difference between you and I is the fact that I have made that abyss my home. My throne. What have _you _done? You crawled back out like a coward instead of embracing it. I can _see_ it. The agony, the hunger, the wishful hoping that one day you won’t wake up. But oh no—_no_! You do wake up and the cycle repeats again.”

Yes.

The darkness.

The point of no return you had sunk down to after Tokyo, after John, after Giovanni threw you out the D’Antonio estate, ending your protection.

That pit had almost destroyed you.

It has clearly stripped whatever sanity Lucien might have held onto once.

But you chose to fight back.

You chose to crawl back into the light.

Because you had people there who had needed you, believed in you, who had cared about you enough to tell you to fight back. Who told you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about your situation instead of giving up.

If it weren’t for Winston and Santino and Ares and Charon and—

If it weren’t for _them_ you would be dead or worse.

You would have become like Lucien.

You _had_ become like him. No matter how briefly. 

The slaughter that had made your name.

The transformation from “John Wick’s partner” and “protege” and “little girl” to _The Vipress_.

“Do you know about _Shódigan_?”

The sudden question snaps you out of your thoughts, and you ignore the way Lucien’s bony fingers sink into your skin with enough force to bruise.

His faint French accent warps the word into a curse; hateful and harsh. 

Trying not to show your discomfort, you give him a dispassionate, “Yes.”

The man leans closer till you’re face-to-face but he seems calmer now, his expression serene.

“You know...everyone who has ever found out about it, I’ve torn apart. Slowly. Piece by piece,” he reveals with a faint laugh. “Not because I cared that they knew but because they…they could never _understand_. But you do. You know what it is to be so desperate and so afraid that you would do anything to _live _and anything to _die_.”

“So you think that just because the system failed you that gives you the right to become a maniac?”

Your immediate retort gives him a pause before he reaches forward, cupping your face in his hands instead, the sharpness of his digits sinking into the flesh of your cheeks. 

“You’re not listening—”

You try to drag yourself out of his grip but it only constricts again.

Something dark gleams in his eyes at your struggle.

“Oh, but I _am_,” you spit out, glaring right at him. “The poor little orphan boy. People tried to help you again and again but you didn’t _want_ it. I bet it was easy to like her after she killed for you.”

Dear Mika. With her clever mind and her pretty face.

But killing one’s parents for some _maniac_—

“It was,” Lucien admits easily, unfazed. He finally releases his grip on you, stepping back, his head slanting mockingly. “But are you any different, viper? How many have you slaughtered? I bet you delight in it as much as I do. In fact, I knowyou do. For a split second in those tunnels, you wanted me more than dead. You wanted me to be _ruined_. Torn apart. You said it and _meant_ it. You see, we are _exactly_ alike.”

For a moment you only stare at each other.

“Too bad the Dragon wants me dead.”

He says nothing, a faint frown twisting his elegant features at the reminder.

You lean forward as far as the chair allows you.

“I will make you a deal,” you begin and lick your lips to steady yourself. “Let me go now. There is something I must do and it’s urgent. But once that’s dealt with…”

You smile grimly.

“Once that’s dealt with, you pick a place and a time. No running, no tricks. Just you and me. You want to dance with me, Lucien? I’m inclined to indulge you. But I need you to let me go _now_.”

You need to get to Santino.

You need to talk him out of this stupid, foolish, vengeance-seeking plan of his.

Whatever it takes to get to him now, you will do.

John will wait.

But only for so long when he’s being hunted by everyone in New York. 

Only so long after Santino sent Ares and his men after him in the catacombs.

Lucien stalks closer; a tall, looming figure, and you notice how his right palm rests against the spot where you drove your blade into him. His fingertips trace over the spot almost obsessively.

His eyes are pitch black as he smiles faintly.

You see it coming but can’t react to it with your hands bound.

A needle sinks into your neck and you gasp, jerking in your seat.

Lucien grips your hair, pressing his lips against your ear and breathes a handful of words that get lost in the rush of sudden dizziness.

No—

No—

It shouldn’t be _possible_. You’re the Vipress. You have trained against this.

It—

“—sends his regards.”

Numbness spreads through you at a frightening rate and your head droops to the side.

“Let her know that I have the Viper.”

Inky darkness drags you down and then there’s nothing.

_ **. . .** _

“—they tried to take her during the Hunt but, well, it didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“Because she went to Camorra, dipshit. Who the hell goes up against Camorra?”

“I thought Camorra didn’t like outsiders though? They’re traditionalists.”

“Yeah, well, she befriended the heirs from what I’ve heard. Exceptions were made.”

“So Chicago was—”

A faint sigh slips past your lips as you eyes crack open, your vision blurring.

Your throat is dry, a stale taste lingering against your tongue as you try to blink away the dizziness.

What the hell—

“Woah. How is she awake?”

Footsteps.

A barrel of a Sabatti ST18 digs into your bruised shoulder and you jerk in your seat, your head snapping up to glare at the owners of those two voices.

The duo in typical Dragon tactical suits take a step back.

Your vision blurs and you shake your head again, your eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“The fuck, man?” the shorter of the two demands. “The crazy said she should be out for hours.”

“Will you _calm down_?” the one with the gun grumbles, shooting his partner a look. His gun lifts and he nudges your shoulder again, keeping the barrel on you. “She’s the Vipress. Makes sense that whatever shit he gave her is not as effective on her. You’ve heard the stories. We’re _fine_. She’s still out of it.”

The first one shifts in his spot, uneasy. “Man, we should call for backup. Get the crazy here to handle her.”

“She’s harmless—”

You ram into the man in front of you.

“_Shit_!”

The chair beneath you drags you to the side, tipping abruptly, and you crash to the floor. Pain flares through your side but you loosen your tied legs, slamming your knee into the second man’s groin. The hit throws his aim, a bullet sailing past you and hitting the concrete instead. The man curses, and you spot the second one grappling for his gun.

Your hands—

_Shit_.

They won’t come loose and you wiggle on the ground, kicking yourself backwards to slide across the floor to buy precious seconds. Pulling yourself away from the chair, you curl into a ball, trying to push your legs over your tied arms.

The first man stumbles to his feet, aiming wildly in your direction—

_Crack._

The sickening crunch of a broken neck echoes, ripping through the vast space of the hanger like a bomb going off.

The man collapses like someone simply turned off his motor function, revealing another tall man standing where the soldier once did.

A lit cigarette between his lips, the newcomer aims and shoots the second man before he even manages to get back onto his knees, his brain scattering in a gory mess.

You stare. Wide-eyed and speechless.

“Hector?” you croak out, confused, your voice raspy as you squint up at the looming figure.

The man doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette instead, letting the loose smoke escape past his full lips in small wisps, considering.

“Never thought these dumb fucks will shut up,” he grouses, irritated. “Fuck me. I have brain damage.”

His pale eyes finally drag to you and he stares at you on the ground for a beat. “What are you doing down there? Get up.”

Rolling on your side, you push yourself onto your knees, shaking your head to clear it. Whatever Lucien gave you is leaving your system quickly but everything still feels…mushy.

How the hell did he even manage to find something that would knock you out is beyond you.

“How did you find me?”

“I followed the sound of bullshit.”

You stagger to your feet, glaring at him as you work on the binds on your hands. Hector watches your sluggish movements with a faint frown before exhaling sharply and dropping his cigarette, stomping on it. He steps closer, watching your reaction to his approach. A small butterfly knife appears between his fingers and he cuts through the restraints easily.

You watch the colourful lines of tattoos curving around his neck blankly while he works.

Wings across his throat. You wonder why wings.

“Good old Santi forced me on guard duty,” he says after a moment, the last of the ropes binding your hands falling to the floor. “I wasn’t about to lug your unconscious ass through New York though.”

Santino.

_Santino_.

Your eyes snap to the windows and you suck in a shaky breath when you realise that it’s dark outside. When you spoke to Lucien there had been a faint pink light emitting through the murky windows. Like dawn. But now, only darkness can be seen outside.

Oh God.

How long have you been here?

How much time has been wasted?

“Where is he?”

Hector pauses, his eyebrows arching at your desperate question. “Shouldn’t you care more about the fact that The Lovers—”

“_Where is he, Hector?_”

He hesitates. He knows you’re not one for panic. “_Relax_. Your Little Saint is fine. He’s rushed his coronation, so probably enjoying the company of rich bastards ready to kiss his ass all night long.”

“Call the guard,” you force out, choked, unsteady. “Right _now_, Hector.”

He rolls his eyes, flipping his knife and placing it back inside his suit. “I told you—”

“He opened a contract for John Wick.”

“So?”

“_So_,” you bite out furiously. “John will come for him.”

Hector makes a small noise at the back of his throat; rough and dismissive. “John Wick is one man, and Santino is the new head of Camorra.”

Your fingers latch onto his forearm, your nails digging in and he tenses, his gaze sharpening at the threatening gesture.

“It doesn’t matter. You have no idea what John is capable of,” you exhale shakily. “You think you do, but you _don’t_. This isn’t me looking down on you or Camorra or anyone. But you need to call the guard _right now_. I need to get to Santino _right now_ or he won’t survive past the next 24hr. If it’s not already—”

Too late.

It could be.

Something cold, downright harrowing, scrapes through your heart at the mere thought.

Hector roughly yanks his arm back, his stare more cutting now, assessing. “I snuck in. But if you want speedy we’ll have to force our way out. The Male Lover has left to check on his squeeze but he will be back soon. He’s expecting someone.”

“Are you asking me if I’m ready to kill people after me?” you wonder bitingly, glancing around for your things.

Hector has that covered though. He offers his earlier knife and a Glock 30S with a sardonic twist of his lips but you grab them without hesitation. While a shitty pistol with 10 rounds is hardly going to be ideal for this situation, it doesn’t matter. You will take what you can get.

“What was—”

You shoot without hesitation but your aim is still unsteady, and the bullet hits the soldier that’s appeared in the shoulder instead.

Hector finishes him off with a single headshot.

His eyes swing to you but you step past him before he can say anything. 

You’ve used this warehouse multiple times, and you move through the space with familiarity, trying to snap yourself out of your daze.

Terror curdles your stomach but you fight it back.

Hector falls in step beside you easily, towering, and you distantly recall that this is only your second time ever working with him.

Neither of you talk. There is no need. You both know exactly what to do.

Kill.

The one thing you’re both best at.

You stumble upon a small group of Dragon’s men moments later, and they’re dead before they can reach for their weapons.

This time your aim is steadier.

You still feel Hector tracking your movements with a critical, merciless eye though.

The sounds of gunfire attract attention as expected, and you hear more footsteps hurry in your direction.

Hector doesn't speak, doesn’t look at you.

He simply _moves_, and where he goes death follows.

He cuts through the Dragon’s men like cutting through wheat. All murderous, focused intent that’s fascinating and terrifying to watch. He makes death look easy. Effortless.

Much like John, much like you, he has a gift of death—and he knows exactly how to use it.

He grabs one man by the arm, cracking his knee upwards in a too familiar manner that shatters the man’s elbow.

Copycat.

That’s _your_ move.

If you had enough oxygen in your lungs, you would say so. But it’s a bit hard to speak with someone holding you in a chokehold.

Leaning back on your heels, you hook your foot on the man’s ankle, kicking his feet from underneath him. The grip around your throat loosens and you drive a knife backwards, blindly aiming for the liver. The easiest spot to hit from your current position.

The man gurgles, and you shove him backwards, freeing your bloodied blade with a gasp of breath.

The man blindly grapples for the wound, his fingers stained scarlet but it’s too late. He will be dead within minutes. You turn towards Hector and find the man readjusting his crumpled suit, scowling in your direction.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“I knew the situation was bad but not _this _bad,” he retorts icily, looking you up and down like he’s repulsed. “Slow. Sloppy. Since when do _you _struggle with simple Dragon goons?”

You stalk closer to him, wiping the bloodied blade against your dark pants. “They’re highly trained—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Hector interrupts, his stare narrowing on you. Bodies lay at his feet. None of them move. “That was miserable to watch. You looked like you were barely keeping up.”

“It might have escaped your notice but I was drugged only hours ago, _asshole_.”

“What happened to that woman in Prague who took down an entire crime syndicate simply because they took Santino, huh?” comes his harsh question as he marches towards you. “Have you fallen asleep? Died somewhere along the way? Or are you gonna cry how your life is _so hard_ and that’s why you’re so shit lately?”

You know you’ve been slipping.

You’ve been aware of your decline for a while now.

Every person has a threshold. Only so much they can handle both physically, emotionally and mentally. The last few weeks have been a hurricane of one thing after another, hit after hit. An onslaught of loss and pain and confusion. Of being torn at all sides and it’s been eroding you away.

That’s why after the tunnels you had agreed to rest. No matter how much it had demanded from you.

Because everything has been building up and it’s taken a toll on you.

Because that ruthless calm that you have used to shield yourself in the past has been crumbling away lately, leaving you vulnerable.

But you sure as hell don’t owe an explanation to _him_.

Not right now.

“You know what?” you bite out, your voice a sharpened blade. “_Get fucked_, Hector. I don’t need your condescending bullshit right now.”

His mouth twists. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he shoots back, bored. “I’m a busy man. You will have to schedule something.”

You almost go for his jugular, then.

_Prick. Prick. Prick._

His arm slams into you suddenly, shoving you to the ground and you both roll across the floor as shots ring through the empty space. He turns to face the attackers at once, every move expertly controlled as he aims. Unloading an entire clip at the men who had rushed through the doorway, he glances your way once. Silent communication. Your arm extends, pistol in hand, counting his shots in your head. He draws blank, but the last two men fall by your bullets instead. Easy transition.

Your arm trembles as it hovers over Hector’s broad shoulder and he reloads smoothly, glancing at you once.

“Go.”

Ignoring the stench of death and blood in the air, you glance his way. Hector doesn’t look at you again though.

“Are you deaf?” he demands coldly after you don’t move. “There’s too many of them here. If Santino is really in danger, you need to go _now_. Besides, you will only slow me down.”

The last part is a purposeful dig that drips with disdain but you chose to ignore it just this once.

“Where?”

His piercing, pale eyes find yours in the dim light. “You already know where.”

_ **. . .** _

Flavio stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You suppose with how you look and feel after the last few days, to him you are no better than an animated dead corpse.

The party is in full swing by now but Flavio is the first of Santino’s security that you have encountered.

You had gotten here in record time.

You’ve left Hector to deal with the Dragon’s men and potentially Lucien whenever he returns. But if anyone could take on the Male Lover, it’s the Camorra’s Devil. Instead, you had backtracked and shot out one of the warehouse windows before climbing out of it while Camorra’s best covered your escape.

Your phone was missing after the explosion, leaving you unable to contact either Santino or John or even Winston.

So you had decided to sprint straight for the Metropolitan Museum where Santino’s coronation was being held. There had been only one stop on the way. A tiny, dingy alleyway located between 66th Street and 2nd Avenue. A safe spot for some gear, namely a pistol with two spare clips and a vial of paralyser with a few sharpened blades. Minimal, but it will have to do. Safe spots dotted along the city was another trick you had picked up from John years ago.

God, you hope he’s safe. That he’s actually listened to you.

But—

That grim look on his face.

The resolute shift of his entire body when he learned about the contract.

You are on borrowed time.

And John is a storm that will tear everything apart without hesitation once it hits.

Still, seeing Flavio and the party in full swing gives you a nearly overwhelming sense of relief.

Because it means that Santino is _here_ and he is _safe_. For now.

“Where is he?”

Flavio gawks openly, his lips slightly parted before he blinks his surprise away.

“I thought you were in Rome—”

You grab him by the lapel of his white suit, jerking his entire body forward. “I asked you where the fuck he is.”

The dark-haired man in front of you scowls. “Great Hall.”

Your fingers loosen at once, and you stagger away from him and towards your target. Breathe in and out. Sweat coats your skin, your head ringing, and you can’t begin to imagine how bad you must look right now. Still, security knows your face and lets you pass with only a few, startled looks shared between them.

You need to find him.

The Great Hall is full of people. Even without it being a coronation held with former planning, ascension to the High Table is a rare and high honour. Especially when it’s the new head of Camorra that’s being crowned. It feels like all the rich, powerful people in this city have gathered here tonight to pay tribute. A few faces you spot in the crowd are familiar. Presenting different families and seats at the table. Others you have never seen.

You push through them all, your eyes frantically jumping from face to face.

_Where are you, where are you, where—_

Your shoulder bumps against someone and you stumble, thrown off of your balance for a second.

The woman in front of you is stunning. With glossy pitch-black curls and piercing blue eyes, she stands almost half a head taller than you. Her blood red lips part before a thoughtful look takes over her features and she adjusts her flowing crimson gown with a simple sweep of her palm. Though she easily has at least 20 years on you, she is the type of woman that makes people look twice.

“My apologies, dear, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine.”

Your eyes are already back to sweeping over the crowd and you step forward—

Fingers lock around your wrist and you yank your hand back at once, your eyes cutting back to the refined woman in warning. She blinks at your hostility but doesn’t seem offended as her eyes flicker over your dishevelled appearance.

“You won’t happen to be the Vipress?” she wonders softly, a faint accent lacing her words that you can’t quite place. “I have heard so much about—”

“Look, no offence, but I really don’t have time for this right now,” you cut her off, brushing past her. “Maybe next time.”

You walk away without another word, pushing through the crowd. Few people give you indignant looks when you shove past them too harshly but you ignore them.

Everywhere you look, there are people but none of them bear the face of the one you need right now.

_Where are you, grumpy—_

_There_.

It stops you for a few breaths—actually seeing him.

Santino is in his element. Expensive, crisp suit on and charisma oozing from every inch of him as he chats with some woman. Conversation flows easily if Santino deems you interesting enough—which is few and far in-between—but tonight is his night.

He is the sun holding this system together and he revels in it.

A prince finally crowned a king.

You take a step towards him and then another, and as if he feels you drilling holes into him, his head tilts in your direction absently.

His eyes brush over you before he does a double-take.

Like a magnet being pulled, his body swings to face you, his previous companion forgotten as he watches you approach.

The softening of his features hardens with every step.

He tallies the injuries mentally and the look in your eyes makes his own narrow.

You need to tell him a thousand things but the only thing you do manage is a weak, “_Santino_.”

He meets you halfway, his hands sliding into his pockets as he regards you intently. A shield, an armour.

“Hello, amore,” he greets but his demeanour is cagey, his voice low. He clearly still has your last conversation playing on his mind. But anger can wait till later. “Your head—”

His hand lifts, his thumb tracing over your brow and you hold back a flinch, your face crumpling in pain.

Your fingers latch onto his own when he pulls back, and frankly, you don’t give a shit if anyone is looking and seeing this. Don’t give a shit what they might think—

“Don’t do this,” you breathe, clutching onto his hand desperately. His fingers fold over yours, too, but his expression is hard, understanding blooming in wake of your words. “Recall the contract. If you don’t, John _will_ come for you. You’re smarter than _this_. You have Camorra. Don’t waste it all now. Let’s get out of here. Go to Paris. Right—right now if you want. Just come with me. Please. Don’t risk everything for some petty revenge, Santino—”

“You would still—”

“This isn’t about him! I’m trying to protect _you_.”

He pauses at the splutter of your voice, at the way it cracks with desperation, with pain. Those familiar green eyes seem conflicted, heavy, as they track over your face, and he swallows.

Tears burn your eyes, and you feel them spill, at last, trailing down your cheeks. Weeks of pent up emotion manifesting itself in the simplest, most human way possible.

Something about the stiff, unyielding set of his face eases a touch when he notices your tears. You know he hasn’t seen you cry since Chicago. That it’s been years and he simply does not associate such things with you because you’ve rarely allowed him to see you like this.

“_Please_,” you plead faintly, trying to steady yourself, trying to convince him. “Please, don’t—don’t make me bury you, too.”

The last sentence is a strangled mess but he exhales sharply at your words, his lips thinning into a firm line.

You’ve lost so much.

All you’ve been doing all your life is _lose_.

Your parents, too many friends.

You’re so tired of being alone.

Left behind. A second choice. Or no choice at all.

So you will demand this. Even if it means you have to make him choose—the one thing you promised you will never make him do.

A simple decision.

Between you and his pride. Between his need for revenge, for more control, over what you want and need.

Santino is silent.

His expression is stony as he peers at you, seemingly lost in thought. But there is something about the light in his eyes that makes a heavy weight form in the pit of your stomach. The guttering dread you’ve felt ever since learning about the contract returns tenfold.

Santino’s hand slips out of your grip.

The soft melody of the party washes over you both as you stare at each other not saying anything.

Perhaps saying everything.

His thumb brushes under your eye, your tears staining his finger and his jaw ticks, his stare stormy.

You know that look.

That look of pride; a look of regretful goodbye.

Your hand presses on top of his, flattening his heated palm against one side of your face. Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head slightly, your fingers trembling.

He’s still warm.

And you are, for the first time in a very long time, _afraid_.

“Please, you _p-promised_.”

_I will never abandon you._

Another strangled breath rattles out of his chest. Quiet enough that only you hear it.

An uneven breath.

Followed by another.

The melody swells.

Your eyes crack open, your sight blurring.

One look, and you _know_.

“Very well, amore,” he says quietly, meeting your helpless stare. “I choose you.”

You feel them.

Those words.

They roll over you like a warm wave, momentarily washing everything else away. 

He doesn’t look happy to admit this defeat, but he means it.

_I_

_choose _

_you_

That’s all you’ve ever wanted. All you’ve ever dreamt about. Someone placing your wishes first.

The noise you make—feeble and choked—makes him take another step towards you, barely any distance between you now.

“So you’ll—you’ll call it off?”

He nods once, his mouth twisting into an unhappy line but his stare is earnest as he gazes at you. His fingers keep brushing against your tear-stained cheek, drying the skin but you hardly register the gesture or care about anyone looking. 

Right now, it might as well be just you two in this gallery, in this world.

“Yes.”

You almost crumble in relief.

But all you do is exhale, your shoulders drooping as you lean into his touch just for a second.

“I figured I could live with it,” he says softly and your eyes flutter open. “With you hating me. Mhm, perhaps even killing me. But it seems…that I just really want to take you to Paris instead, cara mia.”

His mouth twitches into a slight grin at your huff of laughter.

“It seems my father was right,” he continues, his thumb now tracing over the arch of your cheek, all tenderness. “I am weak.”

“You’re not,” you disagree and give him a smile, even if frayed around the edges. “You did what he couldn’t.”

He did what no one in his family has ever done.

Step over his pride.

Change his mind.

Place something above his own ambition just this once.

Something that even you didn’t think he would ever do till the very last second.

“We could go now.”

His eyes flicker, heated. “Right now?”

You nod.

He leans towards you and for a second you think he will kiss you but he stops himself halfway. His tongue swipes over his lower lip once and he swallows unsteadily.

Looks at you like near isn’t nearly close enough.

“I can get the jet ready to leave in an hour.”

He says it like he’s expecting you to change your mind.

But you want as much distance between him and John as possible until the contract is lifted.

And maybe you just really want to say to the hell with all of this and escape for a bit, too.

Maybe—

“Okay.”

His fingers slide down, brushing against your jaw and neck, lingering on your skin. “Yes?”

You meet his searching, guarded gaze evenly. “Take me away from here.”

His lips part and you can almost feel his shallow exhale. You certainly feel the heat of his stare as he keeps looking over you—like he can’t get enough of it, like he can’t quite believe this.

His lips part—

A hush falls over the gallery.

The music cuts off abruptly.

Your head jerks towards the sound of the parting crowd and something inside you ices over when it reveals John.

Your body twists instinctively at the look on his face. At the darkness of those eyes, scrutinising Santino like a predator does with his prey.

Your John is not here.

The one standing before you now is Baba Yaga.

You take a step in front of Santino.

The Italian places his fingers against the crook of your elbow as if to stop you, but you tug your arm away from him, not taking your eyes away from John.

You just need to talk with him.

Explain that it’s over. Finally, it’s _over_.

He can rest. Be free.

You _both_ can finally be free.

John looks at you eventually but you can’t quite read his expression.

Santino’s guards are surrounding him but they will be nothing but tissue paper for the man in front of you.

His face is littered with cuts and bruises that tell a colourful tale of the last 24hr but you never doubted him. His skill is seldom matched. You can count on one hand the individuals who have a shot at all.

“Get to the Continental,” you instruct Santino calmly while the Great Hall seems to hold its breath, waiting to see what will happen next. “Find Winston. Call off the contract. Go, Santino.”

He doesn’t get to reply.

Your draw is a second behind John’s.

Screams explode through the air as gunfire rains through the gallery. You shove at Santino blindly, covering him, and John’s attention snaps to the guards instead.

He doesn’t miss.

Four shots, four dead.

Blood spatters everywhere and he rushes ahead, determined, only to be met with a shot at his feet.

John halts, frowning.

You don’t aim your pistol at him. You just need him to _stop_.

“(Name).”

He practically growls your name, angry and warning, but he doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t want to hurt you, or fight you, and it’s clear in his dark eyes. In the pleading look he’s directing at you—a plea for you to step aside. Let him go on his mission and exact his justice.

But not this time.

“John, it’s over,” you shout over the rush of fleeing people, angling your body to block his way. “Listen to me. Santino—”

He fires.

You wait for the pain to hit but hear a dull thud of a body dropping to the floor behind you instead.

Twisting around, you watch as more guards rush into the room but you hesitate. 

A few seem to pause at the sight of you, too.

But John fires twice more—another two dead, just that easy for him—before running out of bullets. The guards scramble and unleash their own gunfire in reply.

You throw yourself to the side, firing back, but purposely hitting legs and shoulders. Enough to wound and momentarily disable but not kill.

Some of those faces are familiar to you.

You can’t—

John has no such reservations though. He steals gun after gun, clip after clip, emptying each with such deadly focus that it reminds you of the man you first met.

No mercy. No reservations. A shadow of a being.

As if he’s truly Death given human form, and there is no escaping him now.

His legs wrap around a guard’s neck and a bullet to the temple follows seconds later. He jerks at the sound of another shot sailing over his head but it’s too late. A body crumples to the floor behind him, and John finds you in the scramble, his stare wary despite the save.

“John!” you scream his name as he rounds a corner, disappearing from your sight and you dash after him. “Stop! John—”

You round the corner, only for him to grab and shove you against the wall, firing at the guards rushing through the hallway and directly at you.

His body heat presses into yours, covering you, and you fire shots too. Even if it makes you feel queasy doing so.

You grab him and his attention snaps to you.

Physically this is the closest you’ve been in years. The irony of it all doesn’t escape you.

“Will you just listen to me!” you hiss at him when he tries to wrench his arm out of your ironlike grip. “It’s _over_.”

“The contract is still open,” John rasps unevenly, his voice as dark as the look in his eyes. Strands of his raven hair stick to his sweaty forehead but he looks wild. Terrible. _Godly_. “He won’t stop, (Name). Even you weren’t enough to change his mind. He will _never_ stop. This is who he is and I will finish this. Do not stand in my way. Not you.”

His eyes soften at the last part as he peers at you.

So he has no idea what happened to you.

That you got here only minutes before him.

“Listen to me,” you plead urgently, pulling him closer till you’re face-to-face. “Santino will c—”

A shot whistles past your ear, and John jerks your body to him, turning so that next two bullets hit his back instead. Your arm snaps out, shooting the assailant over his shoulder. This time, you aim for the head.

More guards rush in your direction, forcing you two to split apart and John growls under this breath, previous softness long gone.

He just pushes forward.

You’re slowed down by the mere fact that you make a conscious effort to not kill anyone else. And indeed, most guards seem to know better, only trying to hold you back and kill John instead.

It’s a desperate job trying to catch up with him. He’s barrelling through everything and anything in his path with single-minded focus.

You knock your pistol against an unfamiliar man’s temple and he collapses gracelessly to the floor.

At least he will live.

“_Welcome to the Reflection of the Soul—_”

You ignore the too pleasant, automatic female voice as the glass door opens and you rush through it. Now only armed with blades. Your pistol became obsolete three guards ago.

“John?”

There’s no sign of the man anywhere. Further into the maze you go, twisting through reflections and strobe lights dancing across every reflective surface to a dizzying degree. The woman keeps narrating the concept of perceiving one’s soul through observation of one’s reflection.

And then.

You throw yourself towards the sound of a distant struggle and stagger onto a floating staircase. Below, you see two familiar men on the floor.

“John, no!”

Roberto.

You sprint down the stairs, your ankles quivering from the strain as you stumble hurriedly downwards, ignoring the other dead body. The two men keep twisting on the ground, rolling, and even though Roberto has both the height and the mass advantage, John is simply another league.

He pushes a gun towards Roberto’s head and this time you don’t waste time with words.

** _BANG_ **

You hit the floor, your arms around John and he pushes you away, twisting to stand. He relaxes once he realises that it’s you but a gasp of pain draws your attention before you can speak.

Roberto is clutching at his chest, and even beneath the thick beard, you see his features contorting with agony.

“Roberto?” you whisper worriedly, stumbling towards him. You fall onto your knees, trying to turn him over but he shoves you away. “Roberto!”

He stills at the snarl of your voice and his eyes crack open. “V?”

“It’s me,” you reassure him, and watch in horror as dark blood pools from beneath his fingers. “It’s okay. I will help you—just—let me look. Keep pressure on it. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The man groans with a nod. 6’2 but he seems smaller, then. Diminished. 

It takes you another moment to realise that it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Your head jerks to look behind you but John is nowhere to be seen.

“No, no—”

Roberto grabs your hand in his. His face is pale and clammy, but there’s still strength in his grip. “Boss needs you more. Go to him, V.”

“I—I can’t just leave you.”

The man squints at you. “You have to,” he says grimly. “It’s fine. I’m a tough bastard to kill. It’s just a scratch.”

_Bullshit_.

This level of bleeding suggests an artery was hit.

“Hector is coming. With others,” he adds.

Yeah, and taking his sweet goddamn time.

Roberto’s breaths are deep but laboured and he squeezes your hand again. “Go to him, V. He needs you.”

You nod your head, and wrap both of your hands around his, holding them tight.

“You better not die. You still owe me that poker game.”

The large man huffs a laugh, wheezy. “Yeah, can’t forget about that.”

With one last look at him, you free your grip and lurch to your feet, following the only other exit out.

For a few minutes, you dash through the unknown. It’s so quiet aside from the automated tour guide voice that you begin fearing the worst.

Two more bodies greet you eventually. Both from Ares private guard.

Both faces are familiar and even though you have seen enough death to last you ten lifetimes, something about seeing people you _know_ dead by John’s hand hits you differently.

You force ahead.

A door hisses in front of you.

And another.

Another opens with a gentle whistle.

And you almost fall into the scene before you.

Your reaction is instinct alone.

A blade through her hand, Ares is no match for John’s raw strength.

But with you wrapping your hands around theirs, your joined strength is just enough to still the blade centimetres from Ares’ heart.

Your leg drives into John’s knee and his grip wavers.

He stumbles back a step, and Ares crashes against the glass heavily, silently gasping. Your grip loosens before dropping, and your attention turns to the man behind you.

He _tried_—

“Don’t touch her,” your voice soft but the fury coating it makes him visibly hesitate. “Don’t forget you _owe_ me.”

John stills.

“I’m calling it in,” you tell him frankly, and block Ares from his sight. “Your life debt to me. Santino’s life—that’s my price.”

His expression goes slack. You know he didn’t expect this—didn’t plan for it.

You can almost feel Winston’s spirit beside you, humming a pleased, “_Checkmate_.”

John’s eyes lower and you see the weight of this realisation settle onto his shoulders.

Either he lets this go or he risks dishonouring a life debt as well.

Not to some mafioso. Not to some power-hungry man.

But to _you_.

Quiet shuffle registers in your ears and you tense, your expression dropping as you twist around to slam yourself into Ares.

** _BANG_ **

The bullet she fired at John sails to the side, hitting the glass above his head instead and you slam her uninjured arm against the wall. You stare at her wide-eyed for a beat. She’s glaring, her mouth bloodied, and the look in her blue eyes is glacial. Furious.

She knows what you’ve done.

Saved John’s life.

And the fresh scratch against her arm begins to bleed at once.

A scratch made by a blade coated in your paralyser.

A blade you were going to use as last resort against John if all else failed.

The effect is almost immediate. Her shoulders drop, her muscles relaxing and you grab her, lowering her to the ground carefully. She glares at you the entire way down. The hand with a blade still sticking through it twitches in her lap and you see her pain even if she can’t vocalise it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I can’t—I can’t let you kill him.”

In reply, Ares’ eyes slide behind you and you follow her line of sight only to realise that John is no longer there.

“I called in my debt,” you remind her with a thin smile and frantically make sure that she’s not injured anywhere else. Grabbing her shoulder, you gingerly cut a part of her suit sleeve off, tying it around her palm to stop any blood loss till someone finds her. “He won’t—he—”

Your voice breaks.

Because deep down you know he _would_.

John always finishes his jobs. He never fails, unlike you.

John who refused a Marker to stay away from this world _would_. 

_This is who he is and I will finish this._

Unyielding. Grim.

“Santino is at the Continental by now,” you add hurriedly, for your sake more than hers, tightening the knot and Ares’ hand in yours feels heavy. “He’s safe there.”

Winston would never allow a breach of rules on his territory.

Ares pulls her hands away from you, staring at you for a hard, angry moment. The gleam in her eyes makes your stomach twist with fear.

Her hands are clumsy as she starts forming signs, using the very last of her motor functionality to give you only one message.

A slow arch of her tattooed digits.

A stab in your direction with her index finger.

Her sentence completed, she lets her hands fall back into her lap but you feel her silent words pierce you harder than any blade or any bullet ever has.

Just three simple words. 

You stand hastily, your joints creaking.

Then you turn around, and run faster than you have ever ran in your entire life.

_ **. . .** _

Everything is a blur.

Your legs are numb to a point you barely feel them at all. All you do feel is the weight of them carrying you forward, and the spasms of your muscles as you push them harder than you ever have.

_He loves you._

Ares words cling to you like a second skin, infecting every inch of your mind and heart.

You round a corner, pushing past a crowd of tourists who whistle and shout after you but you ignore them.

_He loves you._

Your lungs are on fire.

Your eyes are dry as wind beats harshly against your face.

Santino D’Antonio. The Smiling Shark. Camorra’s proud heir and now head of a criminal empire near unmatched. 

_He loves you._

_Since when_ some tiny, absent part of you deep down wonders. When did that awful, selfish man even learn to love?

You can think of a thousand moments and none at all.

Chicago.

_But you should mind it._

_Oh, cara mia, I do. I just pretend that I don’t._

Prague.

_You came for me._

_You’re an asshole, Santino. That doesn’t mean I want you dead._

Naples.

_I did it for you. That was me being on your side. I will always be on your side._

Or was it one of many moments over the last few weeks?

_I am a patient man. I can wait._

_I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then._

The Continental appears in your line of sight and you sprint for it so fast, you trip up the stairs, wavering before you right yourself.

The doormen are absent because of the hour and you slam your hands against the door, the glass rattling upon contact.

Charon’s uneasy expression is telling enough as you sprint towards him, barely pausing but he already knows what you need, and provides you with only one word, “Lounge.”

Few guests scatter out of your way as you dash through the hallway.

There. Just ahead you can already see the warm, welcoming glow of it.

But it’s so quiet that even over the sound of your thunderous footsteps sprinting through the hallway, you still hear the faint sound of Winston’s wary voice reach you. 

“Johnathan,” he speaks, his voice laced with a clear warning. “Just _walk away_.”

But he _won’t_.

You know that.

You’ve known it from the moment you saw that look on his face when he first learned about the contract.

You’ve known ever since Ares men attacked him in the catacombs.

Maybe even before that.

Maybe you’ve always known.

That dark, burning emotion that filled those eyes every time you have intervened.

He won’t hurt you. Be it because he cares for you or because he doesn’t want to fight you out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness—it doesn’t matter. He could not bring himself to turn his hands on you the same way you didn’t want to turn yours on him.

But that doesn’t mean he will stop.

You’re not sure if he knows _how_ to stop. If he ever has.

John Wick is a man who doesn’t walk away.

He is a man who will destroy himself or everyone else on his path to vengeance. 

“Yeah, Johnathan,” Santino says, his voice soft with mockery. “Just walk—”

Your body slams against the bannisters, pain exploding everywhere, and you throw a blade with one, fleeting look and nothing else.

** _BANG_ **

Stillness.

Such awful, terrible stillness. Like the building itself has released a long shuddering breath and doesn’t dare to inhale again.

The body sitting behind the table slumps slightly.

_He loves you._

You don’t bother with the stairs.

You jump right over the bannister, crashing to the floor heavily.

For a moment, you stay there. Unable to stand or move.

Your legs hurt so much.

You can’t stand up. 

_Yes, you can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to._

Your head lifts, frantically seeking the owner of those words.

Swaying and dizzy, you half-crawl to your feet but you still rise.

Santino.

Why isn’t he—

_Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone._

_I swear._

John reaches for you, his hand bleeding, but you shove it away from you without looking.

“Don’t you touch me.”

You don’t even shout. There is no energy left in you for that.

Just stillness.

Everything is so still.

“Santi?” you croak as you brace your hand against the white tablecloth, using it for support as you limp towards him. Red stains the white where your fingers touch. “Santi? Come on, grumpy. I’m here. I’m here. I came for you. _Santi_?”

Your hand lingers over his arm.

Nothing.

You touch his round chin.

His skin is warm.

Nothing.

Arms wrap around you, trying to pull you back and the only reason you don’t push the weight away is because you know that scent—sage, bergamot, paper, and ink with a hint of tobacco.

“Winston, Winston,” you repeat his name in a tiny, devastated mantra. “Help him. _Help_—Winston. Please, help.”

“Don’t look,” he tells you, almost gently, and somehow this ruthless man sounds the kindness you’ve ever heard him. “Don’t look, little hatchling.”

You ignore him.

You pull away from his grip and grab Santino’s face, turning it towards you.

And promptly flinch at the sensation against your fingers. You pull away as if burned, something hollowing out inside your heart.

The ledge crumbles, crumbles, crumbles—

The darkness below beckons; smiling and seductive.

_He loves you._

Your hand turns.

_Blood_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crickets* sO ANYWAY!!!! HOW ARE YOU GUYS???


	14. what is and what should never be;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A part of you has missed this quiet, this dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we ready to find out, huh? Strap in.

_“My mother who was a great lover of art always told me that life is like poetry. It rhymes.”_

Inhale.

_“I believe that everything eventually comes around full circle.”_

Exhale. 

The silver viper ring between your fingers rotates for the hundredth time. 

For the first time in days your hands are not shaking. 

A stillness has fallen over you; a hush that has wiped away all else. A part of you has missed this quiet, this dark. It has given you back a sense of ease. You can’t even feel the pain in your body anymore. There is just…nothing. 

Crisp footsteps approach the spot where you are sitting and you don’t need to look up to know who it is. 

Winston sits down beside you with deliberate slowness but there is a heaviness to it. Distantly, you wonder if anything like this has ever happened before. The man next to you is unmerciful in enforcing the rules in his hotel and city at large. Such a violation must be a first.

You sit in silence for several minutes, neither of you moving. Your elbows keep digging into your thighs but all you can focus on is the ring between your fingers. On the faint traces of blood still lingering beneath your nails and cracks of your skin. 

The stillness between you is the loudest thing you have ever experienced. Matched in magnitude only by the initial few seconds following the _gunshot_—

“What happens now?”

Your question is so steady, so calm—it surprises you. You might as well be asking him about the weather. 

The older man doesn’t answer right away even though you feel his attention turn to you. 

“The High Table has been informed,” he tells you flatly, his hands clasped in front of him. “This will…echo.” 

There’s just enough trepidation in the final word for you to know that a more accurate expression would be a “shitstorm”. You wait for something—_anything_—to hit you but nothing comes. Panic, fear, dread that have always followed any possibility of invoking the Table’s wrath is absent. Winston’s words barely register. Maybe you can go into hysterics later. Maybe not. 

_“Is there anything I can do—”_

_“You could come to Paris with me. You still owe me a trip, carissima.”_

The ring in your hand rotates again. 

Winston focuses on the movement but doesn’t comment. You’re not quite sure if he knows the significants of the ring in your hand, if he’s ever even guessed it. He has certainly seen it before. He knows you’ve had it for years. 

The silence stretches for what seems like hours. 

“Are you—”

“No.”

It’s an empty answer to an empty question. You’re very _not_ alright right now. 

Your fingers still, folding around the ring till the viper disappears, devoured by your hand. By the prison of darkness. 

Your head finally turns to look at the older man and his expression draws tighter at whatever he finds on your face. 

“Will you—”

“Yes,” he cuts you off before you can finish, nodding his head just once with a pointed stare. “Even if it wasn’t a part of my job—and it certainly is—yes, of course. You need not ask.”

It’s one of those few, serene moments where you feel immensely grateful for having him in your life. To a point you doubt there are any words that could aptly express it. Neither of you is prone to displays of sentimentality though so you choose to say nothing. Still, you think he can read it on your face. See it in the way you blink just a little too fast and swallow thickly with a grateful dip of your head. 

Your fingers stiffen into a fist, and you feel the metal ridges of the ring cut into your flesh. It’s a dull, vague discomfort and you turn to stare at the too-clean floor for another beat before you rise smoothly, your joints clicking. 

Nothing hurts and the fingers of your other hand flex. Experimental. Deliberate. 

Your turn to go. 

“Where are you going?”

You pause, but don’t look at him. “I have unfinished business.”

More hollow, calm words that drag from somewhere deep down. From the abyss. 

But because Winston is Winston, he doesn’t drop it like most would. “I know what Johnathan did was—”

Inhaling sharply at that name, you begin walking away. 

“V,” Winston calls out, and you hear him rise. “_(Name)._”

It halts your feet, that tone. The authority in it. 

But you don’t stop because you fear Winston. You stop because you respect him enough to do so. Care for him enough to at least hear what he has to say if he’s so insistent on saying it. 

“If you do this,” he begins, and there is such worn heaviness in his voice that it almost makes you falter. _Almost_. “You will regret it for the rest of your life.”

_Don’t go down this path again. _

He doesn’t have to add it verbally for you to hear the words in the space between you. Be it because he doesn’t want a bigger mess than this has already become or because he wants to shield Jo—

Or maybe he just cares about you in his own way. 

He knows what revenge does to a person. He knows how slippery of a slope hate can be. He has seen what resentment has turned you into once. 

_That_, you think coldly, was child’s play compared to _now_. 

You look back at him over your shoulder. His face is still drawn, his eyes narrowed, but you know that if you choose this, he will not stand in your way. 

A man who believes that everyone is a master of their own fate. That one has to learn how to live with the consequences of one’s actions. 

_You are the father I wish I had. You taught me well._

It’s what you want to say but don’t. 

Instead, something far less kind leaves your mouth, “The only thing I regret right now is not letting him bleed out on that platform.” 

With that, you turn to go, and he doesn’t try to stop you again.

_ **. . .** _

Kimber Super Carry. 

A custom semi-automatic model with a good sturdy handle and sleek edges, making aiming easy and reloading smooth due to lightweight casing. The seven-round magazine is the smallest capacity it’s manufactured to as far as you know but it’s undoubtedly a weapon crafted for death all the same.

A gun that was fired on Continental grounds. 

A gun that—

Your feet halt in the debris of a dream. 

John’s home is now rubble. 

You haven’t seen it since the news about its destruction reached you and you drag your eyes over the ruined space. Once upon a time, you think it would have made you sad to see this. Now, you don’t feel much besides an inkling of satisfaction. 

Consequences.

The echoes of them are everywhere you look as you move through the ash and the dirt. Your footsteps crunch underneath you, and the charred remains still stink of smoke even with the heavy deluge of rain falling down on it.

Your grip on the pistol doesn’t loosen as you step slowly through John’s home. 

As if there’s anywhere else he would go to mourn, to wait for what he already knows he will not escape. 

Like a ghost, you move across the graveyard of John’s dream. Your eyes linger on the half-burned photograph of him and Helen that still sits on the crumbling mantelpiece. Half of John’s face is burned away, leaving an echo of a smile and love and you stare at it for longer than intended, your jaw set. 

You find him minutes later, sitting alone and hunched over on a blackened armchair. 

He doesn’t move. 

Even though you know he’s aware of your presence. 

Rain trails down your face and you blink the tiny droplets out of your lashes as you step into the room unhurriedly.

The dog suddenly appears, dashing towards you from behind the seat and wags his tail happily at the sight of you. He nudges your hand with his nose and your fingers absentmindedly play with his ear, patting him a few times. 

Your eyes don’t leave John’s prone figure once. 

A dark spectre haunting the ruins of his own life. 

Lips parted, he lifts his head towards you eventually, a thin bracelet tangled in between his bloodied fingers—the same hand you injured with your blade only hours ago. His face is bruised just like yours, and through the space between you, the roar of rain washes away the would-be silence.

He doesn’t say anything. 

Your lips curve. 

“No apology this time?” 

John with his sorrowful, dark eyes who is always quick to plead for forgiveness. As if you have the power to absolve him of his many sins. You are not his absolution. He has shown that time and time again. 

There is, perhaps, no one left on your side now.

John’s shoulders slant backwards with a deep breath, his voice a rasp, “Not when I did something I know there will be no forgiveness for.”

You stare at him. 

He’s not wrong. 

He doesn’t look at the gun but you’re both intimately aware of it. His hand had forged your own after all. Right now all you can think about is those long months of work you had to put in just to _barely_ keep up with him—too slow, too erratic, too rigid. His grip on your wrist and the low, measured words of instruction, of guidance. 

Viggo Tarasov never made you. He gave you _the_ tool to make yourself. 

John Wick never made you. He guided the creation with his careful, deadly hands and an unspoken promise that he will be by your side, always. 

Santino D’Antonio never made you, either. 

You did it all yourself. 

“I spent the journey here thinking how I’m going to put a bullet in your head,” you inform him calmly, amiably. “How far we have come, _Jardani_.”

His sad, worn expression goes rigid at your gentle murmur of his real name. A name you have held sacred in your heart and hidden so meticulously underneath your tongue for years. 

This is not anger, or rage, or hurt. 

This is just…nothing. The final stage perhaps. 

“He had me _hunted_,” John mutters in defeat, his voice thick with pain as he stares up at you. “I gave you time, (Name). What was I supposed to do?”

“Stop, Jardani,” you whisper sadly. “You could have _stopped_ for me. Like _he_ did.”

John’s expression creases and you watch as rain trickles down his nose and lips. His confusion is palpable. You take a single step towards him and the dog whines, sensing the shift in the air. 

“I was taken after we split apart,” you reveal to him and make sure that every word sinks in, your words slow and deliberate. “That trouble you wanted to help me with initially, remember? The Black Dragon and the Lovers. You won’t know much about the latter because it was after you left. But you know how it goes. Bad blood from years ago come back to haunt me. I was taken but managed to break out with some help. I rushed to the gallery. I got there only _minutes_ before _you_ did. And then I asked him to stop. Call the contract off. Do you know what he said to me?” you wonder bitterly and don’t wait for his reply. “That he’ll _do it_. You were minutes away from freedom, Jardani, and now look at you.”

Doomed. 

One way or another. 

Now, there will be no ticket back. No peace. 

You watch the realisation sink in. The quiet agony that follows right after.

“I—”

“I don’t care that you didn’t know,” you choke out, pained, watching the planes of his face crease at your wet words. “I just wanted you to _listen_. How much more? How much _more_ can you take from me?”

You wait for his answer but this time he has nothing to say. Nothing, at least, that won’t be empty words designed to make you forgiving and docile. 

“I walked through your home and figured it would be symbolic to finish it here,” you continue through the thundering of rain and the dog whines again, quieter this time. “But then I realised something. You _want_ this. You _want_ it to be by my hand. The moment you pulled that trigger you knew exactly what would follow. All that carnage. An attack on Continental grounds. A forfeited life debt that makes your life _mine_. You knew that I would never forgive you for almost taking the people I consider my _family _away.”

Drawing a breath, you lift the gun in your hand but don’t aim it at him. The gleaming, silver surface greets you and in it, you see a blurred reflection of your eyes. The shadow of emptiness there. The hollowed out person staring back at you reminds you of a girl from years ago. 

“You did love me,” you go on after another moment, still staring at the gun. Your body is soaked from the rain by now but you ignore the heavy weight of your clothes clinging to your skin. “I think a part of you still does. But the sad truth is that you never loved me more than _this_. This dream of a normal life. You leaving was never about a choice between Helen and I. It was always a choice between being John or being Baba Yaga. You didn’t stop for me because you _couldn’t_. Because you don’t know _how_ to stop. Not even for yourself. I bet you used to wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and feel just as empty as I do. Maybe you thought that by running from this life—from _yourself_—you could be happy. And I think you were for a while. But Tarasov was right to say that we’re cursed, the three of us. We don’t get happy endings.”

You lower the gun and take another few steps closer towards him, watching his expression as you feet creak on the damaged floor. He looks accepting of whatever you will say or do next.

“You said…_almost_.”

A brief, harsh smile contorts your face. “Yeah,” you acknowledge quietly, viciously, your grip on the gun creaking. “You _failed_. I made you _fail_. Santino lived. I don’t know…I don’t know for how long…or if he will ever—”

You can’t continue because it hurts _too_ much. 

Because you remember a haze of blood and Winston pulling you back. You sobbing that Santino is still warm, that he’s still _breathing_. 

A bullet that had hit the side of his head, creating what had appeared like a river of gushing blood. 

_Missed shattering his skull by 2 millimetres. You saved him, (Name)._

Winston’s hand on your shoulder, _gripping, gripping_, trying to tug you back and over the edge with his words. 

“Critical care,” you spit out and press your lips together to stop yourself from cracking now. “They don’t—he might still not make it and even if he does…there is a high chance of permanent damage. It’s too early to say yet.”

John exhales, staring up at you in wonder. Maybe even relief. You don’t care enough to search deeper than that. 

You simply _don’t care_. About any of this.

Taking another step towards him, you reach into your pocket, pulling out the ring that’s been with you for years. Your only reminder of him. 

The man in question goes as still as death at the sight of it. 

You can still remember his muted disappointment at the fact that you no longer wore it. He no doubt thought that you had gotten rid of it.

“I wonder what it says about me that I still have it,” you mutter with a bitter chuckle and droplets of rain cover the metal in moments. “I kept it with me for _years_. And when Santino asked me if the fact that I still have it means that I love you, I told him _no_. But that was a fucking lie. I convinced myself that I wanted to mend our relationship because of what happened to Marcus. So I would never have regrets but that was only half the truth. I just…_missed_ you. A tiny part of me never stopped loving you. Despite _everything_,” you exhale weakly, pausing, and your expression hardens with your next words. “Until you pulled that trigger I would have still forgiven you. I still loved you. Even after all these years. Now…Now I don’t know _what_ you are to me. Not anymore.”

John’s breathing has picked up, his chest moving up and down as he stares up at you. For once, his calm has fled and his dark eyes are desperate, wilder. 

“(Name)—” 

“You will never stop,” you state frankly, knowingly, your tone wooden. “You will destroy yourself, Jardani. This vengeance will consume you till the man Helen and I both loved is long gone. I don’t hate you. I pity you for that. _I pity you_.”

The ring in your hand stills. It hovers against your skin. This familiar warmth of metal you’ve clung to for years. 

The rain falls harder, beating against your skin, a distant rumbling of thunder echoing in your bones.

The girl who had needed this blanket of safety and comfort is gone now. 

You don’t need anchors to the past.

You just need Santino to _live_. You need Roberto to recover. 

You just need _yourself_. 

No one else. 

Your hand tips to the side and gravity does the rest. 

The ring sails through the rush of falling rain and drops at John’s feet and into the ruin surrounding you both soundlessly. 

Like a stroke of the sharpest blade, it cleaves the past from the present. 

“I will not kill you,” you tell him simply, but you’re not sure if John is listening. He’s staring at the ground, at the ring, and you can no longer see his face. “You will live and reap the consequences of your decisions. Maybe one day I can find a way to forgive you for this. I…I don’t know. But know that if you _ever_ touch the people I love and care about again…” you give him a grim, empty smile. “You’re as good as _dead_ to me.”

Silence. 

You’re not quite sure how much time passes.

Eventually, the downpour eases up, a few minutes of tranquillity following that. 

There’s a dull crack of someone stepping onto burned wood and your head slants to the side. 

Charon stands still and silent in the ruined doorway of the living room. His face is solemn and like a messenger of death, he chills the space at least a few degrees. 

Behind his glasses, his eyes glow with quiet, unspoken regret as he looks at John. 

_The High Table has been informed. This will…echo._

This, you know then, is about to go South in the worst way possible.

His stare is full of relief when it meets yours though, and you know that he was prepared to find a very different sight. 

John dead. Or maybe you dead, or even both of you. Destroyed by the others’ hand. 

Won’t that be ironic? 

“Mr Wick,” Charon begins and John’s head rises slightly at the call, just barely. “You have been summoned, Sir.” 

There is a breath of quiet and then Charon’s eyes transfer to you. Something about the look on his face makes you release a slow breath. 

“As have you, Miss.” 

_ **. . .** _

The dog naps draped across you both, seemingly the only one enjoying the heavy hush hanging over the car. 

John doesn’t speak. You don’t either. 

Charon knows better than to even begin and untangle this mess of a situation. So he does what he’s always done, and that’s obey his orders without comment. 

You stare out of the window, taking in the scenery of your city and wonder if you are still living in a world that has Santino in it. You have no way to contact anyone and his condition—

“You’re right,” John’s voice slices through your thoughts and you almost flinch, your fingers stilling against the dog’s ribs. “Everything you said back there. You were right. I love Helen but a part of me…a part of me never let you go either, (Name).”

You don’t reply. 

He’s not expecting it either because he no doubt realises that his confession is ill-timed. 

You imagine it’s less about forgiveness and more about…

You’re not sure what it’s about. Not anymore. 

What’s done is done. 

It will not change anything now.

Your fingers play with the chain around your neck as you continue staring out of the window. 

The quiet stretches on and by the time the car crawls to a stop just outside of Bethesda Fountain, you know that Winston is waiting for you. The fountain is the man’s favourite spot at Central Park and both of you have taken walks here several times over the years. As have—

As have you and Santino. 

Cockiness in his step and a sly smirk on his face. 

You rip the door open, gasping for breath, and try to blink away the phantom of him beside you, offering the crook of his arm to you. 

_Walk with me, cara mia?_

He’s not _dead_. 

_Yet_, adds Kishi’s cold voice inside your head.

_No, let him live. Let him live even if I— _

“It has been a pleasure, Mr Wick,” Charon says politely, offering his hand to John as you round the car. The two men shake hands and you can see John’s hesitation, his attempt to read the situation. Charon stares at him for a beat before adding a quieter, “Goodbye.”

John’s head lowers in understanding and he moves in the direction Charon extends his arm towards, leaving you behind. 

For a few moments, you stare at the man who has been a part of your life for years. Who has seen you at some of your best and worst. 

“Miss Vipress.”

Charon’s voice sounds defeated, a touch sad, and behind his glasses, you see a glimmer of remorse. 

“Take care of the old man for me, would you?” you request softly, taking a step closer when you notice John pause, realising you’re not following him. “The safe in my room. There are two letters inside. One for Winston and one for Santino—”

You work your jaw, trying to bite back your emotion and Charon’s neutral expression strains, too. 

“The combination is 29091942.”

For the first time since you’ve met him all those years ago when you were nothing more than a young naive girl, lost and alone, you see Charon’s expression crack. Just slightly. Just enough. 

He knows what those numbers mean. 

Winston’s birthday. 

“Would you—” your wet whisper breaks off and he nods his head promptly. 

“Of course, Miss,” he tells you quietly and offers his hand to you, his eyes sad. “It has truly been an honour and a joy.”

You grasp it firmly, squeezing the gloved fingers before leaning forward and wrapping one arm around him too. Charon is rigid but doesn’t push you away. 

“Thank you,” you breathe into his woollen coat, scratchy and comforting and him. He smells like the Continental. Like _home_ and you soak in that scent one last time. “Take care of them for me. Please.”

“I will.”

You step back but he doesn’t let go of your hand, giving it another gentle squeeze before releasing your digits. 

You both know this is goodbye. 

There is no other reason as to why you would be summoned. 

With one last look, you turn to go, straightening your spine into a rigid, unyielding line. Whatever it is, you will face it as always. 

_There she is_, a sly voice hums in your ear. _My sea on a stormy night, hm?_

John is still waiting for you a respectful distance away, his eyes downcast, and you move past him without a word. The dog trails after you, his tail wagging and you hear John follow moments later. 

Winston is waiting for you by the fountain, his head tilted towards the sky like his thoughts are miles away, and the muted glow of the setting sun paints him in a golden light. 

You come to a stop before him as always and his eyes go to you first before John halts at your side, too. 

Your stare is desperate, you know that, but something in your heart eases when Winston simply dips his head in a tiny nod of reassurance. 

_Still alive. _

Oh, Santino. 

You cling to that knowledge with every shred of your being. 

The older man takes you and John in, all limbs attached, and his eyes flicker to you again. He doesn’t say anything but you can’t help but think that perhaps some minute part of him is proud. Maybe just a little bit. If you’re foolish enough to allow yourself such a pathetic thought. 

“Johnathan. V.”

“Winston.”

John’s voice is weary, guarded. There is subtle tension coiling those limbs that tells you he’s expecting an open attack at any given moment. But if that were a case it would have happened by now. Something else is going on and Winston’s thoughtful hum as he stares at his old friend only confirms it. 

“What am I looking at?” John asks eventually when Winston does nothing more than gaze at him blankly. 

The older man bobs his leg up and down, still staring, but the look in those blue eyes is cutting. It surprises you a touch—the lack of pity you see there. 

“Camorra has doubled Santino’s open contract. It’s gone international.”

14 million. 

Your blood chills in your veins. 

Gianna dead. Santino clinging onto threads of life. 

It surprises you it’s not more. For Camorra, that kind of money is pocket change. 

John exhales. “The High Table,” he assumes. 

Winston hums again, nodding. He looks no less weary, then, and something tells you that the worst is yet to come. 

“And the Continental?”

Your muscles lock. For one, sluggish second you see _red_. Almost go for him with your bare hands alone. 

After what he _did_—

Winston’s head snaps up, and this time something old and merciless stares back at you both. “You shot a member of the High Table on company grounds, Jonathan,” he reminds him coldly, the corners of his mouth tilting downwards. “You leave me no choice but to declare you Excommunicado. The doors to any service or provider in connection with the Continental are now closed to you.” 

No weapons. No medicine. No supplies. 

Every helping hand cut off and your body effectively tossed to the very bowels of the pit that is the underground world ready to be devoured. 

You’re not surprised that it takes John a few moments to digest something like that. 

Your eyes lower and you smile. 

A sad, accepting thing. 

“I am so sorry,” Winston says with an exhale. 

Your eyes lift and his stare is on you. 

“_Winston_,” John growls under his breath. “She had nothing to do with this.”

The man before you blinks, sparing his old friend a brief look before he nods his head. “Oh, I am well aware of that. The High Table, however, does not see it that way.”

You look towards the lake, towards the sky, towards the trees. 

“Santino lived because of (Name) interference,” John insists, his voice growing colder, harder. “She saved his life.”

Winston rises to his feet, his hands slipping into his pockets as he strolls closer. His steps are forceful though, and there is just a trace, a glint, of anger there as he stares at John flatly. 

“Do you believe that I do not _know_ that, Johnathan? The fact that Santino lives is the only reason why, unlike with you, there is no bounty on her head. _Yet_.”

“But—”

“There are no buts about this,” Winston cuts in, his calm words laced with ice. “The security footage from the museum was retrieved. Can you guess what it showed? V saving your life time and time again. The High Table believes that she should have shot you in the head the first chance she got and been done with it. Her inaction with Tarasov and subsequent saving of _your_ life when you came after Santino—one of their own—has been deemed _treasonous_.”

John is quiet after that; a rolling, barely contained storm. 

You’re still staring at the trees, silent. 

In the far distance, kids screech happily as they chase pigeons. 

You wonder if any of them belong to the Bowery King.

Winston steps closer and you meet his stare calmly, expectant. “I told you this would happen, my dear. I did warn you,” he remarks unhappily but his words lack accusation. They’re just…sad. “You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time.”

Luck runs out. Consequences follow. 

His words from your last summoning right after Tarasov’s death. 

You should have known that it’s only a matter of time before they came back to haunt you. 

“Keep him safe.”

It’s the only request you can think of. 

The only one that matters right now. 

Because the list of people that would rather see Santino D’Antonio dead is a long one.

Winston’s mouth thins into a hard line but he dips his head in agreement, his gaze solemn, and the relief that follows that is immense. He will keep his promise. Even if he doesn’t like the Italian. You would trust no one else with it. 

“I’m sorry but both of your lives are now forfeited.” 

There is regret there. Genuine and plain to hear and see. 

The older man looks like he rather be doing anything _but_ standing here with you and delivering this news. 

“Then why are we not dead?” John wonders carefully, his words low. 

Winston’s head tilts, almost insulted, and that ruthless man you have come to respect and rely on and even love over the years stares at John like he has said something incredibly funny. 

“Because I deemed it not to be,” he replies bluntly, his head turning to nod at someone behind John. 

You hear a faint command of “now” and every person in the Bethesda Fountain Square simply _stops_. 

They turn to face you as one, and your eyes track over the crowd, taking in all the faces surrounding you. 

Winston’s eyebrows arch, amused, and you think that on any other day you might have been both amazed and terrified by such a casual display of power. Of influence. 

Winston is the beating iron heart of New York City. 

He nods _once_, and every person in your line of sight turns around and walks away.

Dozens of people. Gone. 

Just like that. 

The older man pulls back his sleeve, checking his watch before calmly informing you, “You have one hour. Couldn’t delay it any longer.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out an all too familiar object and offers it to John. “You might need this. Down the road.”

A Marker. 

Your jaw clenches subtly. 

Another trap for someone. 

Those wise blue eyes move towards you, and you force back a scornful smile. “Let me guess? Locked down?”

Winston sighs and slants his head in agreement. “Yes, any and all of your arsenal located at the Continental is hereby locked down and no longer accessible to you,” he informs you coolly. “They have forbidden anyone from so much as touching it. Everything is now under the Table’s jurisdiction.”

Your lips pull back but it’s not a smile. “Good luck to them,” you mutter tightly. “They will _never_ get their hands on my work.”

You had made sure of it.

His lips twitch slightly, a gleam in his eyes. “But of course not,” he agrees easily, knowingly. “However, _this_ was in my personal possession and as such I see _no_ reason as to why the Table’s restriction rule should apply to it.” 

A tiny box rests in his palm, even smaller than the Marker he offered John moments prior. 

You know that dark gleaming surface well. 

Your breath hitches, your wide-eyed stare flying up to his. “Is that…”

“_Mhm_.”

He offers it to you and you reach for it, having to draw a few deep breaths to keep your voice steady. “Thank you, Winston.”

A possible lifeline down the road. And a personal risk if anyone ever finds out he gave it to you.

His weathered, warm fingers linger against yours for a beat. “You know what you have to do,” he tells you pointedly, sternly. 

_You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose._

Yes, you do know. 

You’ve always known.

_Fight_, Winston’s expression tells you and you straighten, your fingers clenching around the tiny box. _Make me proud_.

_I will._

His mouth twitches again. 

“I do.”

Here at the most critical time in your life—and even with the lingering, awful dread churning in your gut about Santino—you feel _calm_. 

You feel the calmest you’ve ever been. 

_Santino will live and I will succeed. _

You repeat it in your head. Over and over. In the beat with your usual counting.

Those words will be forged into reality and you don’t care who you have to go through to make it happen. 

The significance of your exchange with Winston might have escaped John, but that doesn’t stop his next, icy words. “Winston, tell them, tell them all,” he starts and for the first time since his house, your look towards him. It isn’t John speaking, not right now. “Whoever comes, whoever it is, _we’ll kill them all_.”

_We._

Before you can interject, Winston speaks with a faint smile, his previous coldness easing a touch. “Of course you will.” 

For several moments, you all stand unmoving but you know you can’t delay any longer. 

“Johnathan.”

“Winston.”

The man glances at you, a furrow between his brows accenting the deep lines of his face. “It’s a goodbye, my dear.”

You don’t so much as blink. “For now,” you note coolly. 

“Coffee and brandy are 7pm sharp every night,” he remarks casually, seemingly pleased at the steel in your voice, and his hands slip into his coat pockets. “I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

You read his words for what they are. 

_I’ll be waiting for you back home._

Nodding your head once, you turn to go. You don’t look back, either. It would hurt too much. There is always a chance—

No, no chances. Not this time.

With every step, you repeat your new mantra in your head. Form a new plan. 

Continental first. Not for weapons. But because you need—

“(Name).”

“Make it quick, John.”

His fingers brush over your hand and you pull back, halting on top of the stairs. He stands a few steps below and dog joins you at the top. 

“We should stick together,” he tells you urgently, his voice soft, cautious. “If there are people out there who are after you then they will use this opportunity.”

“Let them.”

Let Lucien come. He wanted you over the edge. 

Right now, you feel ready to rip his spine out with your bare hands. 

_Lucien_. The pale-haired monster who robbed you of the precious hours that could have averted this entire mess in the first place. 

He might not have pulled the trigger but he took from you the only chance of fixing this peacefully. 

His name has joined the list of those who will be dead soon enough. 

He wanted a dance. You will give him a _hurricane_. 

“In an hour we’ll be hunted by at least half of this city.”

Your eyes sweep over the park before they drag back to him and your brief smile is cold. “No, John,” you disagree mildly and watch him blink. “What will happen is that _you_ will be hunted by 90% of them because they’re money hungry and 14 million is a pretty price to pay for someone’s head. People will come for me, too, but they will be so eager to get to _you_ first that I will be long gone from this city by then. Buy me at least an hour, would you?”

You turn to go but he grips your wrist and you tense, rotating your body back in his direction. 

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”

“(Name), _please_.”

Your eyes narrow and you tug your wrist back. “I don’t owe you anything, John. Good luck. And I _mean_ that, but you’re on your own.” 

_ **. . .** _

It’s started raining again.

The harsh, cold liquid slides down your arms and clothes as you dash up the staircase of the Continental.

The doorman pauses when he sees you, inclining his head in polite greeting. You only spare him a brief smile before dashing inside. Ignoring the wet squelch of your shoes against the gleaming floor, you go straight for the elevator, not needing to look towards the reception to know that Charon is not back yet.

Your eyes track over the people in the lobby, watching for any threats. Even with 35min still on the clock, you’re not about to take chances.

Wiping the water from your face, your partially numb fingers press on the floor one level below the basement. The basement floor only Charon and Winston have access to. The vaults. But you know better than to tempt fate. You’re not here for your solutions or poison.

The door pings open and you pull the door to the side, pushing ahead as quickly as possible.

Continental’s medical floor is eerily still. Most visitors receive care in their own rooms. This floor is for emergencies only. For worst of the worst.

Hurrying along the hall, you stumble to stop at the sight of a lithe frame of a woman sitting alone on a bench ahead. Her tattooed fingers rest on her other heavily bandaged hand and you exhale slowly, approaching cautiously.

Ares looks up, her expression pinched. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

The clinical, dim light makes her face look more gaunt and the usually fierce glow in her blue eyes is dimmed too.

She rises slowly and you can see the difficulty in the action.

Your paralyser, as always, has done its job well. 

“Ares—”

It’s slow and clumsy and you see it coming but don’t try to dodge.

Her punch connects with your lower jaw and your head snaps to the side, the impact rattling your teeth.

You steady yourself with a wince, your fingers rising to nurse your tender skin and meet her raging eyes with a single, understanding nod.

“Yeah, I deserved that,” you mutter tiredly, wiping at your still damp skin. Your eyes lower for a second with a shaky swallow. “Can I see him?”

It’s a faint question, brimming with uncertainty.

For several minutes she only glowers at you, unmoving.

You’re about to plead with her that you _have_ to see him but her hands lift before you can open your mouth again.

_Alive. For now_, she signs and her movements are more sluggish than usual. _But no one is allowed to see him. Still in operation._

Swallowing, you glance towards the floor.

Few droplets of water have fallen to the floor from your dripping clothes.

“And the blood?”

_They had enough._

The puncture wound in the crook of your arm twinges at those words.

An emergency transfusion had been a priority after the doctors just barely managed to stop the bleeding.

Noting the still furious twist of her features, you let your eyes flutter shut in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly. “But what was I suppose to do?”

Ares doesn’t hesitate.

_Shoot him in the face._

Your jaw clenches and you shake your head. “You know I couldn’t do that.”

_And my friend and boss might die because you could not, _is her angry reply and your throat closes up._ I thought you cared about him more than that._

“I _do_ care for him. I—” you shoot back immediately but your words twist around your tongue, halting you. “You have _no_ idea just how much I care about him,” you add quietly, your voice thin, and something about the hard set of her features eases a smidge at that.

“I guess the punishment fits the crime,” you continue with a sardonic twist of your lips. Your eyes meet hers and the confusion you see on her face, in turn, confuses you. “I’m being made Excommunicado, Ares. I have 35 minutes before it goes live,” you explain slowly, your voice pinching with pain.

She blinks, her lips parting slightly.

The morose curve of your lips stretches. She knows full well what this means.

That’s why you move closer towards her even as your jaw still aches from her earlier punch. Reaching deep behind the layers of your clothing, you pull out an ordinary looking flip phone, holding it out to her.

“So please. I know you’re angry at me. I _know_, but—” you plead for her and tighten your grip on the burner phone. “I need to know. Whatever happens to him I—_please_, Ares. Please.”

After everything that’s just happened, she doesn’t have to do anything you’ve asked of her. She doesn’t owe you anything.

But her hand grasps yours, tightening her thin but worn fingers around your own. Your shoulders sag in relief as she pulls the phone from your hand and slips it into her pocket with a single, reluctant nod.

She still looks angry but—

“Thank you,” you whisper with a wobbly smile and focus on her bandaged hand. “Your hand?”

Roberto, you know, is recovering already. 

She doesn’t get to answer though.

Because before she can do so, a door opens from behind you, and a group of purposeful footsteps approaches.

At least four pairs.

“Well, well, look who it is.”

Your expression slackens.

Ares doesn’t react fast enough.

Hector reacts _just_ fast enough.

You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline or that humming dark or desperation or just anger and poor timing on his part, but you slam the man twice your size against the wall with a strength that causes a bang to rip through the empty hallway.

_“Where were you_?” you snarl, furious and low, your blade against the curve of his throat as you other tangles in his silky, dark suit. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Careful, sweetheart,” Hector warns softly, his mouth twitching into a sneer, but something glints in those icy eyes for a brief second. _Surprise_. “I’ll give you one free pass given the circumstances but there won’t be a second.”

Bodies surround you, but you ignore them, still glaring at the man before you.

“V, stop!”

“Oh, let her beat his ass, Julian,” another familiar voice drawls, unconcerned, his voice full of amusement. “I’ve been waiting for a rematch for years.”

A frustrated sigh. “Shut up, Step, you’re not helping.”

Another tall figure comes to a stop beside you—one that towers even over Hector but neither of you looks away from the other. “Let’s cool it, everyone,” that deep rumble of a voice tries to ease the tension. Dario. If Julian fails to mediate, then the burden falls onto him. Some things truly never change. “Come now, bella. Ease it up. _V_.”

You ignore Ares. You ignore the other members of the Four who are watching you and Hector with clear worry. 

“Where were you?” you wonder with a quiet exhale, your fury palpable.

Hector scowls at you and leans into your blade. The metal kisses those mighty wings but there is no fear in his eyes and your expression warps with rage. “Did you hit your head?” he mocks, annoyed. His grip on your hands constricts, his rings scoring your skin. “I was covering _your_ slow ass and taking on a small army so _you_ could get to Santino quicker but _oopsie_, am I right?”

You drop your hands away from him with disgust, breathing heavily and Hector rolls his eyes, fixing the cuffs of his suit with a bored expression.

“You failed him,” you whisper, choked, your voice soft with vicious sort of accusation. “You _failed_ Camorra.”

The lowest insult you can offer him. His loyalty to Camorra is absolute. He may not follow the individual but this harms the entire family.

It goes so quiet at your words that you could hear a pin drop. Even Step’s not so subtle snickering ceases. Like they can all appreciate that this situation may take a turn for worse very quickly.

The last time you two fought, there was blood spilt.

This time, you imagine it might come down to more than just blood. 

Hector straightens, his sharp features stony. “I know.”

But it’s not _enough_.

And you can’t stop the avalanche now that it’s been unleashed. 

“He needed you to be there for him and where were you?” you continue on, spitting out every word out like a curse, an anathema. “You should have been _faster_ getting to the gallery. You should have been _better_.”

Hector peers at you, unblinking. 

“Are we still talking about me?”

You leap at him but this time he’s ready for you and catches you in his grip, his back hitting the wall again, quieter this time.

Julian and Dario are there at once, their hands trying to drive you apart but a cool, calm command freezes you all.

“_Enough._”

Charon.

Others look towards the man at the other end of the hallway but you and Hector are unmoving, still glaring at each other. You’re practically shaking with fury.

He’s _right_.

Your words were directed more at yourself than they were ever directed at him.

And yet.

“This doesn’t concern you, butler,” Hector calls out coolly, his quicksilver stare drilling into you and his grip on you doesn’t loosen. Smart man. “This is a Camorra matter.”

“Miss Vipress is not, however, Camorra.”

The unspoken _Get your hands off her_ is clear to anyone with any semblance of common sense.

Hector relaxes against the wall, his head tilting as he waits. 

“If you’re done with your hissy fit, sweetheart,” he speaks gruffly after another tense few seconds and clicks his tongue. “We need to talk. In private.”

All eyes are on you.

Hector only blinks, bored.

You release your grip abruptly, your fingers flexing, and Ares practically materialises by your side while Dario partially places himself between you and the Camorra Devil.

Your eyes slide towards Charon who stands with his hands clasped behind him. He’s still clad in his coat and scarf from earlier, indicating that he’s just returned. Winston is nowhere to be seen. You incline your head in a silent thanks and cut a brief look at the Camorra Elite.

All four are rigged out in their typical dark suits. The deep burgundy you have also seen them wear is for Camorra’s special occasions only. Like births, deaths and coronations.

You suddenly recall that Julian and Dario never wore the typical Camorra wine red on Gianna’s coronation and your curiosity peaks. Except, of course, you have no time for a catch up with them now. No matter how welcomed the distraction would be.

“Fine,” you mutter, your muscles still taut. “Hurry it up.”

Hector brushes past Dario and the Four part for him, following his lead effortlessly. They move like a well-oiled machine. Dario shares a brief look with Julian, and the shorter man looks like he’s forcing back a sigh, his dark moustache twitching.

Hector wrenches the first door in the hallway open, slanting his head in your direction impatiently.

Ares, Dario and Julian walk in first; all of them varying degrees of uneasy. 

Step moves to follow, too, but Hector raises his hand, stopping him halfway. 

“Not you.”

Step with his thin, wiry frame and pale face looks like a kid picking a fight with a bull. Even though he’s the youngest from the guard, that makes him no less dangerous. You can’t quite see his eyes behind those customary round sunglasses he usually wears everywhere but you can see the irritated strain on his face. 

“You’re _joking_.”

His voice is low and stark with bitter disbelief but Hector doesn’t so much as twitch.

“No,” Hector deadpans without missing a beat. “Guard the hallway. We don’t need ears.”

For a second, those pale eyes jump over your shoulder where Charon no doubt lingers. 

“Fine,” Step forces out, forcefully cheerful and his head tips in your direction, his grin bright. His tattoos stretch across his neck and he wiggles his fingers at you, his own Camorra rings gleaming in the artificial light. “Would thy fair lady like anything from the vending machine? My treat.”

Your eyes go to Hector for a second. 

“Skittles.”

Step grins even wider, if possible. “Only if you let me eat the yellow ones.”

You almost smile, then. If all this wasn’t going on, if Santino wasn’t clinging to life and you weren’t about to become one of the most wanted individuals in the world, you might have.

“Sure,” you agree before adding a deliberate, “I reckon I owe you after the last time.”

Hector’s eyes narrow at that, becoming two slits, and Step’s strained grin transforms into something slyer, more biting.

He always enjoys having something over Hector’s head.

He pushes the glasses up his nose and gives you a staged nod. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he gives Hector another stare before wandering off without a backwards glance.

The leader of the Elite’s gestures for you to get into the room and you push past him.

Julian is signing something to Ares when you enter, and Dario stands beside them, his hands burrowed deep into his suit pockets. His long hair is pulled back into a high bun as always and loose strands brush against his beard when he turns towards you.

Beneath their pitch-black jackets, you can just make out the gleam of their weapons.

They’re armed to the teeth.

Good.

The other two turn to you when you enter the room and you try for a smile, no matter how forced.

“It’s good to see you both,” you tell them and mean it and both men smile, too. Your attention swings back to Hector, however, just as the Devil closes the door behind him, sealing you all inside. “But whatever it is that you want from me make it quick.”

A subtle threat.

The man doesn’t outwardly react, simply lifting his arm.

“Catch.”

Your hand snaps out, your actions instinct alone, and grab the tiny object that sails through the air towards you.

It’s small and cool to the touch.

Your fingers loosen from a fist, blinking in confusion and something in your gut hardens at the realisation of what exactly you’re looking at.

“They—” your voice cracks and you pause, forcing calm back into your demeanour as you turn your attention to Hector who only stares at you emotionless. “They will not follow me. I’m an _outsider_. Half of them don’t even like me.”

_The_ ring of Camorra sits in your outstretched palm.

The ring only the Head of Camorra is permitted to wear.

Or, in this case, the Acting Boss appointed prior.

Your stomach churns.

You have seen this ring on Giovanni’s hand many times. The golden metal that gleams like new even though you know it’s been in the D’Antonio family for generations. The blood-red ruby the size of your thumb nail glimmers in the light and you stare at it in disbelief. You can’t even begin to imagine this ring’s worth.

“You’re right,” Hector retorts blankly, unfeeling, and crosses his arms over his chest. A ripple of his muscles teases the deadly strength there. In dimmer light, his pale eyes seem to almost glow with wry mirth as he addresses you. “Frankly, they rather shoot you dead than follow you. But there are still those who value what that ring represents. That believe the order and the command that comes with it. Those who answer to that ring _will_ obey. Princeling at least had enough foresight to prepare for the worst case scenario. Little Saint has made you his _heir_, sweetheart. And until he either dies or revokes the title himself, it’s binding.”

Binding because it came from Hector himself and no one would ever question his loyalty or integrity towards Camorra.

Santino has outmanoeuvred everyone by giving away his symbol of power. The very ring he’s been desperate to wear since he was a little boy.

A safety net in case he dies.

The realisation makes your heart hurt.

The families of Camorra will not obey you because, to them, you are _nothing_. You have not been sworn in, do not answer to their laws and their authority. But they cannot harm you _either_. And anyone who does, Camorra or not, risk invoking the wrath of the entire family if they do.

But above all that—

_Those who answer to that ring will obey. _

Your head turns towards the other two Elites’ and Ares. They’re already looking at you and not one of them looks surprised by this turn of events. Either they already knew beforehand or know Santino well enough to not put a gamble like that past him.

Almost in sync, the three of them bow their heads.

A show of respect. An unspoken promise that what you command, they will do.

A shuddering breath rushes out of your lungs that has nothing to do with your damp hair or clothes.

Clenching your jaw, your eyes drag towards Hector who hasn’t moved from his spot by the door.

He doesn’t budge, his arms still crossed over his chest, stretching the seams of his suit.

The Devil of Camorra does not bow his head to you.

He bows to no one.

The only man he’s ever respected enough for such a gesture is rotting six feet under the dirt and his ring is now in your hands. You don’t think there will ever be another individual alive that Hector will ever respect enough to bow his head to them. Oh, if only Giovanni had known years ago that one day _you_ will be bestowed the most valuable heirloom in his family’s possession.

You imagine he would have killed you on the spot.

_He laughed, and he said, ‘He is more like me than I realised. He would let this whole world burn to ash, as long as she’s the one standing beside him in the flames.’ _

Gianna’s words echo at the back of your mind, and a part of you wonders if perhaps Giovanni always _did_ know. If perhaps he always suspected that due to whatever circumstances you might reach this moment in time one day.

You think about your brief conversation on that snowy balcony at Prague and know that you’re _right_.

“Stay here,” you tell the trio on the other side of the room. Your words sound far away, distant, but strong too. Focused. “No one who isn’t us or the doctor comes near him, understood?”

Your stare drifts to the far off wall in a daze, and you know that somewhere in this building, Santino is out there fighting.

As will you.

Nodding your head at them, you turn to go.

Hector’s arms loosen across his chest and he steps after you when you move in the direction of the door.

You halt at once, your head snapping to face him.

“What are you doing?”

A slow, lazy roll of his eyes as he fishes for a cigarette.

“Coming with you. Were you not listening? I go where that ring goes,” he informs you dully, and lights a cigarette with expert ease. He takes a deep drag, savouring it, and frowns at you, the deep curve of his eyebrows pinching together. “Drop the fucking scowl, sweetheart. I know you think that just because you’re in New York and your connections here run deep, you’re untouchable or some shit but you’re _wrong_.”

Smoke rolls from between his lips as he talks and your scowl only deepens. In return, he looks amused at best. “In twenty minutes half the scum of this city will come for you just to prove a point,” he reminds you, tapping the glass of his expensive watch, and the bird tattoo on the back of his hand flutters like your slipping time. “Don’t let your over-inflated sense of self-importance cloud your common sense.”

Your turn towards him fully, your chin tilting.

“You will stay _here_,” you tell him calmly, ignoring the way his eyes narrow and every strong muscle in his body quivers as if in anticipation. “And you will guard him with your _life_.”

You think you hear Julian curse under this breath. Dario takes a step towards you both.

“Are you _ordering_ me?”

A dark, silky snarl of a question.

Your expression is as rigid as your body. Your fingers around the Camorra ring tighten. “I’m _asking_ you. And I only do that _once_ out of respect.”

A glint of something in his eyes that’s gone too quickly for you to examine.

He retreats and it feels like missing disaster by a breath.

The cigarette returns to his mouth and he grins around it. It’s a callous, mocking thing.

“_Fine_. Enjoy being hunted, sweetheart.”

You stare at him for a beat, too aware of your time constraint.

Camorra ring rolls in your damp palm again. Grasping it, you drag the heavy metal onto the middle finger of your left hand. Your fist clenches, the skin under your knuckles straining. The ring glimmers in the light, filling your veins with…purpose.

_I _ ** _will_ ** _ see you again, Santino._

Inclining your head in an equally disdainful manner, you only offer the man before you an aloof, “Blood for blood.”

Camorra’s words.

D’Antonio family words.

This time Hector’s version of a smile reveals teeth, almost pleased.

“_Blood for blood._”

_ **. . .** _

Streets blur around you.

Stumbling through the rain and the puddles drowning the New York streets, you count every breath you take, focusing on both not exerting too much energy but also your surroundings.

Everyone is an enemy.

In 7 minutes that will become a painful reality.

No one has tried anything yet. But you have seen and felt far too many eyes on you already. Many are no doubt weighing the risks. There is no reward for killing you, and most know the danger that shadows your every step.

You don’t need to touch them to kill them.

Ducking into a narrow alleyway, you slam your body weight against the sturdy metal door. Your fists follow, slamming against the door over and over again.

“Doc! Let me in! It’s me!” you shout over the pour of rain and slam your fist against the metal a few more times. “_Doc_!”

The door swings open suddenly and you brace yourself against the door frame.

Doc’s frantic stare meets yours and all he forces out is a shaky, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Bowing your head in respect, you push past him. “Yeah, I know,” you mutter under your breath, working on steadying your breathing. “I just need a few things. I still have time so—”

Your words die on your tongue and you halt, your eyes narrowing.

John sits on the patient chair, his white shirt undone and a lamp shining over his bloodied shoulder.

Fresh blood.

He grips a gun in his hand but doesn’t raise it in your direction.

You hate the fact that he looks relieved—_happy_, even—to see you.

Blinking, you swipe your forearm over your face and move towards the shelves. Doc rushes back towards John and you glance at the clock on the wall.

_4 minutes._

“What happened?” you question coldly and start opening different drawers and pulling ingredients apart.

“Ernest.”

“Funny guy but always lacked common sense,” you drone without looking at him and rip another drawer open, rummaging through the content inside. “Did you know that he tried to ask me out on a date once?”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

_3 minutes._

Grabbing a familiar-looking vial, you give it a shake, lifting it to the light before you unscrew the top and drown the liquid inside.

The taste is bitter and numbs your tongue a little. You allow your face to scrunch up in disgust and shake your head harshly.

“I’m going to pay you back, Doc,” you wheeze, continuing your frantic search.

The older man huffs and you hear the fatigue there. “Just try and not make a mess.”

A few beats of quiet follow aside from your hurried rooting around Doc’s supply closet. 

“Where is it, Doc?”

“Indonesian Green Erla—”

“I’ve found the plant,” you cut him off, glancing at the clock on the wall again. “Where is it?”

_2 minutes._

Doc works with nimble, experienced fingers but he’s meticulous and his focus remains on John’s wound. The man in question looks bewildered by your exchange but doesn’t interject.

“Doc—”

“You gave it to me because you told me that you were afraid of what it can do—”

“_Where is it?_”

You have never dared to take that tone with him. Because you like him and respect him too much. But your frayed temper strains and the coldness in your voice stills both Doc and John.

“Doc, I need it.”

The clock keeps ticking.

Your head snaps towards the wall for the hundredth time.

_1 minute._

“Floorboards. Under the table by the wall.”

You rush towards it, pushing the table aside roughly, and ignore the clatter of glass as vials and medical supplies fall.

Slipping free a blade, you wedge it between floorboards, trying to rip it open.

John is urging the Doc to hurry but you focus only on your task.

“Five.”

John counts and your breathing kicks up a notch.

The wood creaks, finally coming loose and you rip it away, dropping it unceremoniously beside you.

“Four.”

You pull different boxes and packages apart. You know what you’re looking for.

“Three.”

Your eyes snag onto a tiny box and you grab it. It’s a twin—the same dark, smooth material that fits into your palm—to another tiny box already sitting in your pocket courtesy of Winston.

“Two.”

Your two deadliest creations. One created out of hate and malice and another out of hope for a better future.

One finished. One incomplete.

“One.”

Your gaze snaps to John’s just as the clock above head strikes 6pm.

_Time’s up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so everyone's favourite Italian lives. For _now_. :) also the man really said “fuck tradition, I do what I want” and we love to see it!!! 
> 
> Fun fact, I was planning to do Chicago (finally) right after C13 but since Chicago will be a 2 parter, I imagined that waiting for six weeks to know if Santino lives might not have been that much fun for you lot lol. 
> 
> Also a few people really worried about Team John after C13 and were like “Team J is ded” and actually as you can see from the events of this chapter the exact opposite is true. Now, you may be reading this and be like “how is this positive for them?” but this had to happen. V needed to realise that she still clung to John and loved him but it wasn’t the right kind of love. A love for a man gone, a spectre, a dream. Her dropping the ring represents her letting go of the past and starting completely fresh. Their mend after Marcus was just a prelude oppose to actual break. This is the break. All these years, V has blamed herself for John leaving by assuming that she wasn’t good enough or that John loved Helen more. Neither is true. The choice was always between who John was and who he wanted to be. He loved both V and Helen the same and it really could have gone either way. Now, at this juncture, they can start again on the same page. Now, this is not to say he’s magically forgiven for all the shit he did. He isn’t. A lot still hinges on Santino and how he will get on in the upcoming chapters. But a lot of you were like “um kat wtf?” and I hope this chapter proves that I do things for a reason and that this build up has been coming for a while now. 
> 
> There’s been a lot of things set up that are yet to be revealed. 
> 
> As always, all my love to all of you for your support and encouraging comments <33 and love for my dumb OCs, too! Love you guys and hope you’re all staying safe!


	15. be all my sins remember'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One day you will thank me for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apologies for the wait. Usually, I post a chapter on Tumblr first but since 16 has been taking me so damn long due to major burnout I have decided to post this chapter on here and both are officially caught up. 
> 
> Also, surprise! This chapter we are travelling back in time to the infamous Chicago. I know the build-up here hasn't been as huge as on Tumblr but just in case you are not sure on the timeline of events (and for a clearer picture in general) please feel free to check this post: https (://) the-darklings(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/616767544826757120/firstly-i-am-completely-obsessed-with-coa-it-has
> 
> Also, this chapter is like......20k. So enjoy!

_“Father, please—”_

_“Quiet.”_

_He doesn’t raise his voice. That’s the worst thing. He doesn’t have to. One word and it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room._

_You look towards Gianna but she looks only at her father, her expression blank._

_Cassian is tense as a bowstring next to her. There is conflict in his expression but he is Camorra. He is sworn in and regardless of the friendship you’ve built—_

_“You will depart this household at once,” Giovanni says and steps closer towards you. His eyes are pitch-black. “Let’s see how long you last, viper. Your protection that was so kindly bestowed upon you by my son is hereby _ ** _terminated_ ** _.”_

_“Father, I can vouch—”_

_“I said quiet,” he speaks again, colder this time, and Santino’s mouth snaps shut at once. “You have done plenty already. I’ve just about had enough of your decadence, boy.”_

_Then, Giovanni D’Antonio’s head slants towards you again and he regards you like he’s considering whether it would be easier to kill you here and now or later._

_“Hector.”_

_A dark shadow moves from behind the Camorra head, always the obedient dog, and halts at his side. Step is staring at the floor, stricken. Julian’s eyes are full of sadness, his shoulders curved downwards. Dario’s lips are pressed into an unhappy line, his knuckles popping from under his skin. None of them move or interfere. They know better than that. They are Giovanni’s men. They owe no loyalty to you._

_“Yes, capo?”_

_“Get her out of my sight.”_

_Hector moves without hesitation. You don’t try to fight him when he grips your forearm, his cool rings pressing into the flesh of your skin._

_Your eyes find Santino’s across the room. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the grind of his teeth but he’s silent._

_Something crumbles in your chest._

_You had hoped that maybe_—

_“Move it, sweetheart.”_

_You turn to go._

_“If you take so much as another step, Santino,” Giovanni’s merciless, soft voice reaches your ears and you almost halt. “The consequences that will follow will be of your own making.”_

_Silence greets every echoing step after that and no one tries to stop you._

_Alone._

_Again._

**.**

**[NEW YORK CITY, 3.5 YEARS AGO]**

Your eyes crack open and for a moment all you can see is blurred, muted colours above you.

The Continental room ceiling greets you like an old friend.

The sour odour of herbs and old sweat mixes in the air when you try to inhale and your face scrunches in disgust.

Your skin feels dirty and cold to the touch. You’ve spent the last several hours on the floor no doubt sweating out the toxins in your body while going through several fits.

Wrong dosage. _Again_. 

Trying and failing to roll onto your side, you huff a weak breath. Your throat feels raw and dry and you ignore the painful cramping of your stomach.

The elixir wasn’t clear enough again. You’ve spent almost two days trying to distil it till it was clear enough to mix and used the best alcohol you could find in the city—

Shit.

It doesn’t matter, you think and close your eyes again. You’re still delirious but there’s always tomorrow.

_Welcome back_, Kishi murmurs lovingly into your ear the moment darkness appears behind your eyelids. 

Your nightmares begin moments later.

**.**

You heave painfully, your shoulders curving harshly as you gasp for breath.

Wrong _fucking_ dosage.

And too many zootoxins. Goddamn viper venom. Goddamn stupid chemistry. Acetylcholinesterases must be having a field day ravaging through your body as you stay curled pathetically over the toilet, losing whatever little water you had consumed in the last several hours.

_Pathetic_, Kishi hums from beside you, his ghostly hands caressing your hair soothingly. _No wonder he left you. No wonder he doesn’t love you._

“Shut up.”

You suppose the blood you see should concern you.

It doesn’t.

**.**

You’ve kept the dress you wore to his wedding.

It still smells like him.

It torments you as much as it gives you comfort.

**.**

Foxglove is a remarkably beautiful flower.

It’s also a rather deadly, beautiful flower.

Cardiac glycoside.

_Interesting_.

You scribble a new formula, your brain aching but still functional after your last failure.

Too obvious? Perhaps. It lacks finesse, sure.

But you don’t care much for finesse anymore.

You just want _results_. And you _will_ get them. Even if it means bleeding yourself and this world dry to get them.

_You hate so beautifully_, Kishi compliments with a sigh, his dark eyes glimmering in the low light.

You simply prepare yourself for another count of agony.

Such is the price to pay for power.

**.**

The dress doesn’t even smell like him anymore. It’s been months.

You still like to pretend that it does.

**.**

_John._

You turn the viper ring on your hand.

_John._

_He’s not coming back_, Kishi tells you from beside you and you both ignore how his throat spills blood. _He doesn’t care about you. No one does._

“I know.”

His rough fingers caress your cheek.

You might be crying but you can’t be sure.

You’re at the bottom of the pit and there is nothing but darkness and quiet here. 

Even if you wanted to get up. You don’t think you can.

You don’t want to, either.

Easier…

Easier to let things wither and die.

_But I’m with you. I will never leave you, little viper. I will hate you forever._

Kishi rolls over, his fingers wrapping around your throat, his mouth a sneer, and his eyes dark. His throat is open, gushing, and red rains everywhere.

His hands tighten around your throat.

You don’t try to stop him.

**.**

Freezing water splashes against your face and body.

You wake up with a strangled scream, scrambling across the dirty floor.

A puddle of sick lays not too far from you and you blink away the wooziness, trying to locate a weapon. Your heart sits in your throat as you attempt to find the culprit, too, and your eyebrows knit when your eyes snag onto two men standing before you.

“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Winston drawls, a hint of coldness lacing his scornful tone. “Saves us the trouble of cleaning up.”

Charon says nothing but the bucket in his hand paints him as the guilty party.

You try to wipe the water from your eyes but it takes several tries to lift your hands to your face due to muscle weakness.

“_What_—”

A weak croak and you pause, forcing your unused vocal cords to work.

Winston looks away as if he can’t bear the sight of you and approaches the window, pulling back the curtains with a swift jerk. Light explodes across the room and you flinch, ducking your head down as you block it with your palm.

“What are you…_doing_ here?” you finally force out, your throat sore and blood stinging your tongue.

Ulcers from the chemicals. _Great_. 

“Considering that no one has heard from you in days, and you won’t let anyone inside without a threat of violence,” the manager explains, every word as icy as the last. “That left me with little choice but to check on you myself by forced entry. Do you plan to waste away here forever?”

The window opens with a crack and you shoot a glare towards Charon who moves around the room calmly. He opens doors and windows, letting the room air and you scowl at them both, still curled on the floor.

Your body aches and your muscles feel shaky with exhaustion. You haven’t left your room in days though. How funny it is that you feel more exhausted now than when you used to do jobs back to back with little sleep and danger around every corner.

“Get showered and dressed,” Winston instructs sternly, glancing at you only briefly and something in your stomach twists. Are you truly that repulsive to him that— “I expect you downstairs in ten minutes. Charon, handle the rest.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Winston only manages a handful of steps before your choked words stop him dead, “You’re _not_ my father. Don’t order me around.”

With your head bowed, you imagine your glare is even more vicious when he eventually does look back at you. His own expression is cool, composed as always, and he hums thoughtfully.

“No, I’m not,” he agrees easily, his expression as hard as his voice. “And be glad for it. Because I reassure you that if you were, I would not be putting up with this behaviour. Ten minutes, dear.”

Then he’s gone, and the distant clank of his shoes fades down the corridor.

You wish that didn’t sting but it does.

**.**

The first sip scorches through your throat and you choke down a mouthful, pulling the glass away from your lips with a grimace.

“What the hell is this?”

“Bruichladdich.”

Ignoring the agony in your mouth, you scowl at the man before you, and force yourself to take another sip. Winston’s frown deepens as he watches you shrewdly over his glasses. You don’t care much for it. With how strong this drink is, it will probably knock you out with a few more sips and that’s the goal. Better than whatever the hell this is.

_Intervention, little viper_, Kishi speaks from beside you and this time you almost jump for a different reason. Kishi and his torture belong in the pit with the rest of you. Not here.

The lounge is suspiciously empty as you and Winston sit facing each other on twin leather sofas. In fact, only Charon lingers by the bar and you know that Continental lounge is rarely this quiet.

“May I ask what it is, exactly, that you’ve been doing as of late?”

The question is restrained but something simmers in that gaze as he pins you under his heavy scrutiny.

“Working.”

Winston’s eyebrows jump. “Oh! _Working_. Is that what you call it?” he wonders coolly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks to me like you’re just poisoning yourself repeatedly.”

Scoffing, you lower the glass and ignore the frailness of your own grip. Your longer than usual nails tap against the glass and you force yourself to swallow over the pain in your mouth. Your tongue keeps poking at the little wound inside your cheek and a sting of copper follows swiftly after.

Your hands are as cold as your feet. Your hair still damp from a quick wash in the sink—because there is no way you could have forced yourself to shower today of all days—sits around your head like a crown of black ice.

_Just like when I drowned you over and over again_, Kishi recalls happily and you grit your teeth, turning to face the fireplace and soaking in its warmth.

“That’s how Mithridatism works, Winston,” you inform him, your voice still a husky, raw mess and you swallow another mouthful even though the drink goes down like a hot knife. Better to feel this pain. Something to ground you. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of how it works,” the man barely waits long enough for you to finish before speaking and you fall silent. “It’s an art of discipline and brilliance. Given a different set of circumstances, I might have even praised you on your foresight. However, given how idiotically _reckless_ you are being that can wait.”

Your grip on the glass tightens and you drag your attention back towards him.

“Why am I here?”

“It’s your birthday,” he says tightly, his eyes flashing. “But you had no idea, did you?”

_Oh_.

No—no, you didn’t.

Time has become…nothing.

A stream of existing and not existing. Of being lost, adrift.

You miss the sun.

You miss the dream that you _could_ belong. That you could be a part of something and have companionship and trust.

You miss _him_.

John. Your John.

You miss him so much it makes you feel sick with longing for something that will never be yours again. He’s happy. Happy _without_ you. 

“I know what I’m doing.”

Quiet, hollow words. You both know that.

“You’re killing yourself.”

There it is. The thing he’s been trying to avoid voicing out loud.

His words devour everything. Even Charon goes quiet behind the bar and you stare at the manager blankly.

Raising your trembling hand, you drown another gulp of your drink before placing the glass on the table and standing unsteadily to your feet.

“No one would care anyway.”

You step past him.

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he calls after you, his mild words full of something you don’t dare to class as concern. Not from a man like him. “Don’t let it consume you,” he adds, quieter, when you fail to respond.

You don’t reply to that, either.

Nor do you believe him.

**.**

You find flowers in your room the next day. You had planned to get them for research into a potential paralyser formula that’s been knocking around your mind for a while now.

There is no note attached to them.

But you don’t need it to know where they came from.

You suppose it should make you happy.

But there is nothing inside your chest. 

**.**

Some nights it feels like your bones are made out of all the nightmares living underneath your skin.

Some nights you think you will swim.

Other nights you think you will drown.

And you know all about drowning.

**.**

Humming weakly, you shake the vial in your hand till the liquid inside goes from dark blue to red.

_Finally_.

It’s a potent, haunting sort of colour. Thick and striking as it rolls in the confines of the glass it’s encased in. It reminds you of—

_Just like when you tore my throat out_, Kishi mutters in wonder, leaning his face closer as he squints at the vial. Shoulder to shoulder. Your only companion. _I bled red just like it._

He’s still bleeding. He hasn’t stopped bleeding. He will never stop bleeding.

And you can still taste it in your mouth. Except you’re no longer sure if it’s his blood or yours.

Toying with the pencil between your fingers, you roughly cross out _Baba Yaga_ and write _Kishi_ on top of the crumpled sheet of paper instead.

Then you tilt your head back and drown it whole.

**.**

There is everything and then there is nothing.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Distant voices. Urgent. Hands on you. Shaking, pulling.

Then nothing again.

**.**

“—cannot go on like this—”

“—there is nothing you can do, sir—”

“—dead soon—called—only option—”

“—use her—can’t—he will not—”

“He _will_.” 

**.**

You wake up bathed in sunlight.

It almost makes you cry because for a moment you can’t help but think that you’re dead.

A faint rustle of paper reaches you, and you slant your head weakly.

Winston sits on an expensive leather armchair, his legs crossed and pen between his fingers.

This isn’t the hospital wing that lives beneath the ground floor of the hotel.

You know this room.

You just can’t believe the man next to you is sitting here with you.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” is the first thing to leave your mouth. A half-forced whisper on your tender throat. “I _wasn’t_.”

It’s true.

But you have no idea how to convince him of it.

The air seems thick with a thousand unsaid things and Winston lowers the newspaper from his face, taking off his glasses and placing both on his lap.

His expression is empty as he examines you.

You curl further into the clean, crisp sheets around you as the silence continues. An IV is attached to your arm and you cringe at the sight of it. Your skin is suddenly so itchy you want to tear it away from you but know better than to try.

“I know you weren’t,” the man voices, at last, his words steady. “You were _punishing_ yourself instead. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You believe that you’re not good enough—that you are deserving of pain. Better to make yourself hurt than to let anyone else do it. Am I wrong?”

Your eyes sting but you don’t speak, staring at his gleaming shoes.

“Are you hoping that you will drown everything else out?” he questions but it’s not accusatory. If anything he sounds like he’s trying to engage with you in a way no one has before. “_Never_ give someone else the power to destroy you. Hurting yourself will not erase what happened to you at Tokyo nor will it bring Jonathan back,” he continues, his voice grim after several moments of deafening silence between you.

You flinch at the name, your eyes closing in shame as moisture clings to your lashes.

Curtains flutter in the slight breeze.

Why did he bring you here?

“You will be staying here from now on.”

Your eyes fly open and your head snaps to him as panic fills your veins. “No—you—you can’t kick me out,” you mumble thickly, trying to rise, your fingers tangling between the sheets. You try and fail. “I pay for my stay. I—I haven’t broken any rules. You—”

_Please, don’t throw me out. Please. I have nowhere else to go._

Winston’s expression creases. “I am not throwing you out,” he pacifies quietly but a shadow seems to have settled across his weathered features. “You are welcome to come back whenever you can afford it again.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and noting your confusion the man continues with a twist of his lips that would be biting normally, “When was the last time you picked up a contract, dear? It’s been _months_. Viggo Tarasov never gave you much to begin with and now…_well_. Your account ran dry two weeks ago. You likely have another two weeks at _best_ before the Russian comes looking for you. He will expect you to pay up. It’s rather good that you already have your next job lined up though.”

That gives you a pause.

“_What_?”

Some of your panic has retreated but in its place blooms unease.

Winston tuts and stands to his feet. The newspaper is still in his hand and he slips his glasses into his pocket.

The look he gives you next makes you feel like you will have no choice but to comply with whatever he says next.

“You already know where you are,” he tells you knowingly, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Your employer is ready to see you.”

_ **. . .** _

Santino D’Antonio hasn’t changed since the last time you saw him.

Which was before John and his wife. Before the wedding.

It was the night you decided to take a leap and hope for the best with your decision to come back to New York. Not like you could stay in Rome. Not with Camorra protection null and void.

Not with Tarasov demanding payment as usual.

Last time you saw him, Santino offered you to go to Paris with him. His own version of an apology. For not doing more to stop Giovanni. But no one could. The entire room could have stood in defence of you and it still won’t have changed a damn thing.

Last time you saw him, he had taken your hand in his and with that familiar arrogance and burning eyes and kissed your knuckles, asking only one question, “_Come away with me, cara mia?_”

You had refused him then.

And you would still refuse him now. 

You will _always_ refuse him because he’s not John.

That thought makes something deep down ache.

The Italian rises when he sees you emerge onto the terrace.

Your arm is hooked around Winston’s as you walk. Normally, you might have commented on how seeing the manager of all the people here is hilarious. You know that there is no love lost between the two so the fact that they have gone through the trouble of collaborating on this…

Do they really think you’re _that_ helpless?

A lost cause?

You don’t have enough energy to ask.

Every step closer is a metamorphosis of expressions though.

Santino seems to go through a thousand emotions in those several seconds it takes you to cut across the terrace. Your steps are shaky, your muscles aching, and you’re sweating.

A tart bitterness still coats your tongue and your grip on Winston tightens.

The older man presses closer—just a touch—but the silent comfort that gives you is immeasurable. Surprising.

Ares stands behind Santino and her expression is stoic as she takes you in. Unlike Santino, her emotions are guarded.

They both look ready for a funeral. The atmosphere that greets you is near suffocating.

You sit down awkwardly, practically falling into your seat as Winston sits down beside you. Santino is the only one left standing but he seems frozen in place.

You see his fingers flex, his Camorra ring gleaming in the golden rays of the sun when he finally lowers himself in the seat opposite to you.

It’s too late for lunch but too early for dinner. Wine and fresh coffee are always present on the heir’s table though—this you know to be an absolute that never changes.

“Ciao, cara mia. A pleasure to see you as always.”

You blink. _Right_.

“Santino.”

Those brilliant green eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong with your vo—”

Winston clears his throat loudly and Santino falls quiet, frowning deeply. He tugs a napkin free and drops it on his lap carelessly, peering at you.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife but you simply stare at the table.

“I have a job offer for you, bella,” the man begins amiably, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth before reaching for a glass of wine beside him. He’s frustrated, angry even. The cords of his neck are tense and the subtle clenching of his jaw betrays him. The way he taps his fingers repeatedly against the table and doesn’t seem to notice even more so. “One that I think you will find most beneficial.”

New York is so damn noisy. The traffic reaches you even up here. It’s a serenade of concrete, shouting, rushing people, laughter, arguing—

“Bella? Are you listening to me?”

You blink again, squinting at him. “Sorry,” you mutter shortly, ignoring the way Winston is dead silent, Ares is glaring at some distant point over your head, and Santino is gripping the wine glass so hard you can almost hear the cracking glass from where you sit. “It’s been a rough few days. What,” you exhale, your voice raspy and try again, “What exactly did you want?”

The Italian’s head slants, his demanding gaze drilling into you with enough intensity to keep you focused for at least a second.

“A job,” he repeats, slower this time, his voice colder, too. “I will require you in Chicago in two weeks time. In peak condition. Which you are currently not,” he adds the last part with such deliberate slowness that your bristle, something flickering in your gut.

It lasts only a second before fizzling out.

Yet between the rays of the sun blinding you both, it’s hard to miss the way he latches onto that brief moment. His navy suit accents the severe curve of his shoulders and the unmissable tension there.

“Not interested.”

A furnace, a volcano—Santino D’Antonio looks ready to shatter this world under his too-expensive shoe. Something whispers to you that it’s not anger directed at you, however. 

Winston speaks before the Camorra heir can. “You _need_ this job. It’s not a question of want or preference, I’m afraid.”

But you _don’t want it_.

Santino is just another reminder. A stark reminder that you don’t belong _anywhere_.

John didn’t want you, Camorra didn’t want you, Tarasov only needs you as long as you’re making him money, Winston is just doing his duty as the overseer of New York.

You belong in the pit with Kishi who seems absent for once.

Maybe it’s the brightness of the sun. He fears the light as much as you do now.

“It’s an undercover mission,” Santino endeavours to explain even though his voice is strained, deepening his accent. “Information gathering only. There are several individuals who have been, _ah_, causing problems for our trade as of late shall we say. It will be low risk, clean exit but no loose ends. What say you?”

He’s lying.

That’s for one.

Your eyes meet his stare and he leans closer like that can somehow keep your attention on him by doing that.

He’s _lying_.

So he either thinks you’re an idiot or he’s being purposely misleading due to Winston’s presence here. There is something else going on that he doesn’t want the manager of the Continental to know.

That calculating glimmer in his eyes is telling enough.

“No.”

You’re tired.

Downright, bone-weary type of exhausted.

Swaying, you stand to your feet.

“Tarasov is going to hunt you down—”

You don’t let Winston finish, turning to go. “I don’t care.”

A loud scrape of a chair fills the air and loud footsteps stalk after you. Deliberate. Furious. You ignore them, continuing on your way albeit sluggishly.

“And what are you going to do, _hm_?” Santino hisses from behind you, his fury spilling over. “Will you go cry a bit more about how your precious Johnathan _left_ you? Will you just give up and go lock yourself away again?”

Your feet halt but you don’t turn around.

“_D’Antonio_.”

Winston’s warning is icy but Santino doesn’t heed it. That fire rages in him too brightly, scorching everything in its path. “When have you become such a _coward_, I wonder, hm? I knew a fighter, a tornado of a woman, now you can’t even look people in the eyes. _Pity_. To think that you have given up so _easily_—”

Fire doesn’t frighten you—it _never_ has.

It’s a second, a breath, a heartbeat—

A blade stills against the curve of that elegant neck, and you stand face to face, seething when your eyes meet. It’s an echo from years ago, of your first meeting, and just like then Santino D’Antonio leans into danger, into the cold promise of death, into _you_ and smirks. “Ah, there she is,” he purrs, enraptured, his voice a silky caress. “Are you going to kill me, cara mia?”

“I’m _considering_ it.”

He raises his hand casually, stopping the guards who are no doubt ready to do their jobs and remove the threat—remove _you_.

“Yet you know that you cannot,” he dismisses, his voice still silky, smug. “For if you do the wrath of Camorra will rain down upon you till there is nothing left. Besides, it might be in bad taste to kill your host and friend, no?”

_Friend?_

You lean closer and Santino’s lips part at the proximity.

“I’m not staying here.”

His eyebrow cocks up and despite the residual anger you feel radiating from him, he still manages to sound effortlessly pompous when he speaks next. “You can’t afford to go back to the Continental,” he points out sharply and tilts his head, unruffled despite the bite of the blade against his pulse. “But if you prefer to sleep with the scum of this city then, by all means, be my guest.”

He’s right.

You have nothing. No home, no safe space to call your own, just _nothing_. John was your home once but he’s gone now, too.

For one hateful moment, you consider slicing Santino’s throat open just to have a quick out. But the truth is that you can’t.

He’s helped you too many times.

He helped John. He helped you. He gave you security when no one else could. He offered his hand despite everything—despite the fact that you still refuse to warm his bed to this day in spite of his clear eagerness for it. He keeps helping without pushing you.

For that alone, you know you owe him.

Ripping the blade away from his neck, you spin on your heels and stagger away, your skin damp with sweat.

Blood is rushing loudly in your ears and your tongue feels dry and bloated in your mouth as you stumble into the apartment. You manage a few steps before slumping against the wall, your breathing laboured. Wiping clumsily over your face, you take a moment to appreciate the suffocating silence your departure has left behind.

You linger just long enough to hear Santino’s clear, bitter command that rings like a death knell across the terrace.

“Postpone everything. We are staying in New York till this is sorted.”

**.**

You’re holding on.

But barely.

Just barely.

Maybe not even at all.

**.**

Winston leaves twenty minutes later.

He stops by the guest room you have claimed as your own and watches your prone figure on the bed.

You don’t turn to him, don’t say anything, either. You want to be angry that he’s as good as threw you out. That he’s forced you into this situation. That you found your clothes moved into the sleek closet behind you but not your solutions or poisons.

They don’t trust you.

They might believe the fact that you weren’t trying to end your life, but they don’t trust you not to do more harm.

The anger you felt only minutes ago in Santino’s presence has fizzled out and died. Darkness has cocooned you in its embrace once again even though something restless still scratches under your skin as always.

Even now, there is no peace.

“Let me come home.”

You don’t realise your slip up till you hear the older man exhale; a weary, ragged sound. You wonder what he must be thinking. If there’s some code he has to follow in a situation like this.

_Home_.

What sentiment. 

What’s the protocol for _this_?

“Your death will not be on my hands,” he says at last, cruel and kind all at once. “One day you will thank me for this.”

And then he leaves.

**.**

Ares knocks on your door by the time dinner rolls around.

You don’t answer.

She comes in anyway. Her stare as hard and uncompromising as always, and the dour expression on her face only makes you blink and press your cheek back into the pillow.

_Dinner?_

You don’t move.

She signs again.

Sits on your bed and repeats it.

And again.

You don’t move.

Eventually, she leaves and you’re relieved that she’s gone.

A distant, angry voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment several minutes later but it cuts out quickly.

Somehow the silence that follows is even louder.

**.**

You could leave. You _should_.

But there is nothing for you out there but death.

No weapons, no solutions, and a weak body.

You won’t last a day.

For one foolish, pathetic moment you consider calling John just to see if his number is still the same. If _maybe_—

You curl under the covers and sink deeper into the dark.

**.**

Ares comes to call you for breakfast the next day.

You pretend that you’re asleep.

She brings you a tray of food and leaves it on the table.

You don’t touch it.

**.**

You pick at some of the food eventually.

But you don’t leave your room, spending endless hours curled under the covers, thinking.

Let Tarasov come.

It’s finally perfect. The poison you’ve created just for him. Just a touch more lethality and it will be ready.

You can’t wait to see him erode into nothing.

When he is dead—and one day he will be—you will delight in every second of dizzying triumph that will follow the stilling of that dark heart.

One day, he will die with terror in his heart that wears _your_ name.

**.**

_John. John. John._

**.**

Kishi has been absent for so long that you’re surprised to see his grinning face appear in your nightmares.

_Hello, viper. I’ve missed you so dearly._

He cups your cheeks, grinning wider, wider—

His face morphs. Raven hair. Dark, thoughtful eyes that you _love_—

John leans forward and sinks his teeth into your neck.

Blood spills down your chest.

Your scream is silent.

**.**

Hands try to hold you down as you trash, your skin slick with sweat, and clothes sticking to your skin.

“Wake up,” a voice urges. “_Open your eyes_!”

You do. A scream climbs up your throat but you force it down, your eyes frantically seeking the figure above you.

A familiar pair of green eyes stare down at you. Wild with an emotion you have no name for.

His fingers hold you by the forearms but his grip relaxes when he sees you’re lucid.

Gasping for breath, you twist from underneath the covers, shaking his arms off and dash for the bathroom. Your knees crack against the gleaming tiles and the content of your stomach empties itself in a brutal lurch. Next several moments are full of your suffering. Tears sting your eyes from the pain, and you bite your lip, your limbs still twitching as your stomach rolls.

You feel him hovering behind you.

“Cara mia?” there is a question in that breathless address but you ignore him. “Are you well enough to stand, at least?”

He sounds frustrated but his voice is still calm—just barely. 

Footsteps draw closer to where you lay half slumped over the toilet, your eyes closed.

You feel so drained that even tears won’t come. The skin of your neck feels dirty and torn. Faint traces of the feverish nightmare still cut into you and you shiver.

Hot fingers settle on your shoulder, light and cautious, and you snarl, jerking away from the touch. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re unwell,” Santino shoots back tightly, his eyes blazing and body rigid. He’s clad in only a clean, white shirt and trousers but you don’t care to ask what the time is. “What is happening? Is it the poison? Did you take something—”

“Shut up and get out!”

“You need—”

“_I don’t need you_!” you scream; a raw, awful thing that leaves you gasping. You want to claw at your own skin but can’t—_shouldn’t_. “I don’t need anyone,” you add in a broken, quiet whisper and it’s like that awful hotel room all over again.

His expression darkens, strains. For the first time, Santino D’Antonio looks unsure of what to do. It’s like that finely honed arrogance with which he carries himself has abandoned him. Here, in this cold, dark bathroom he simply glares down at you.

“Very well, bella,” he says, his words biting, low. “Wallow in your misery alone if you must. But we are eating breakfast together.”

The last part isn’t up for negotiation.

A brief spark of anger ignites, nothing more than a tiny ember. _Egoistical prick._

No response greets him.

He lingers for a few, expectant moments but you don’t move. The only dialogue between you is your shallow breaths and the weight of his overbearing regard.

_Go, leave. Everyone always does._

You don’t feel yourself drift away.

**.**

The next morning, it’s the blinding sun that awakens you once more.

You’re back in your bed.

At first, you think that last night was a bizarre dream until you rub your face, and catch a whiff of vinous scent staining your skin.

_Santino_.

There is a feeling—

It flees as everything else does now—too fast for you to grasp onto it.

You don’t get up for breakfast.

**.**

You don’t get up the entire day.

Or the day after that.

**.**

It’s been at least a year and a half since Tokyo.

Yet it still feels like you’re drowning.

Maybe you’ll never stop.

**.**

“I hope you’re hungry.”

Your eyes crack open and you lick your cracked lips, turning towards the doorway.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him inside this room aside from that night when he woke you up from your nightmares.

He’s been sending in Ares to deliver you food and water, to try and engage.

“What?” you mumble, blinking sluggishly.

Santino stalks into the room and aggression lines his every step. He’s trying to control it, keep calm, and his hands buried inside his pockets say a lot. Behind him, Ares walks in with a tray of food. She moves closer towards you and places it on the bed before sitting down at the foot of it, the tray now between you. 

Much to your surprise, the heir of Camorra does the same.

He looks beyond uncomfortable, his mind clearly somewhere else, but Ares starts first by picking up a mango slice from one of the many plates, and placing it inside her mouth. She chews slowly and stares at you expectantly as she does.

She’s clad in dark burgundy today as is Santino and you know that colour holds a special significance at Camorra but you can’t think of one right now.

They’re both not used to this, you realise distantly, making an effort for someone.

This is _weakness_. This is something that’s ruthlessly crushed and disposed of at Camorra. Such..._inability_ would never be tolerated.

Yet they’re _trying_.

Santino is scowling at a wall but he’s chewing his fruit obediently. Ares is doing the same.

It’s awkward.

No one speaks.

And _yet_—

Your fingers stretch towards the strawberries.

Santino’s eyes snap to your hand, focusing on the motion and you still briefly before pinching one between your fingers. Your head barely lifts from your pillow but you bring it to your lips, nibbling on it cautiously.

It’s delicious. Sweet and zesty taste explodes against your tongue the moment you bite down on it. It’s taken days for the wounds inside your mouth to close but now the full extent of your taste receptors seems to have come back.

No one speaks but the tension in the room seems to ease a touch as you continue nibbling away.

You manage three strawberries that morning.

Every single one of them feels like scarlet, gushing victory. 

For the first time in months, you don’t taste blood in your mouth.

You only taste the sweetness of life.

**.**

It’s hours later, long after they’ve both left, that information crawls up from the back of your mind.

An heir apparent and his right hand wearing burgundy outside of Camorra duties. No deaths, no coronation, no birthday or births to warrant that very deliberate choice of dress code. 

This is something _else_.

Burgundy they wore in a show of favour, companionship, respectful implication that they consider you an equal and are seeking an alliance.

All while you laid in bed with greasy hair, dark circles under your eyes, stale breath and vacant eyes.

Something deep down flutters at that. You try to grasp onto that spark with whatever little strength you still have left but it’s so hard.

Everything is so hard now.

**.**

Warmth.

Your nose presses into it, curling against it and you sigh faintly. There is something so comforting about having someone else in the bed with you—

Your eyes snap open and you scramble backwards, your legs tangling in the sheets.

Santino lays on the other side of the bed, one hand resting behind his head. He’s relaxed, his clothes immaculate as always—pale blue, cotton shirt and trousers, no doubt all designer—and Rolex gleaming around his wrist as he taps his fingers on his chest in a careless rhythm. His eyes drag slowly from the spot he was observing on the ceiling to you, and a slight smirk curves his lips.

A spark again and it flares enough to work your tongue.

“What are you doing here?”

He blinks at the sharpness of your question and you don’t miss the trace of surprise in those green depths.

“This is my home, cara,” he says pleasantly, his voice a lovely roll of syllables, and you’ve forgotten how effortlessly charming he can be. “I am resting.”

“Get out.”

It’s hardly a demand. It sounds more like a strangled, detached whisper.

His eyes roll at that, effortlessly dismissive and condescending.

“Hm. _No_.”

You claw deeper to dig out that ember of your old self back. The one who would have sliced his skin for using that tone. Thrown him off the bed without warning and threatened him for good measure, too. If only to see that smug gleam in his eyes after. Listen to him throw a deliberate, heated comment about how attractive you are when angry while his eyes drag over your figure with obvious desire.

The same dance.

Always trying to get under your skin.

Even now.

“Get _out_.”

His eyes spark. Eager. Coaxing.

He sits up unhurriedly, his chin lowering as he looks you right in the eye.

“_Make me_.”

A deliberate challenge. Everything since you’ve come here has been _deliberate_. From his actions to his words. He’s trying to get a reaction. Even more so than he used to before. Before it was about him and his ego. Now you have no idea what he’s trying to achieve with his goading.

“What are you doing?” you demand even though it sounds faint and takes more effort than it’s worth. “Trying to piss me off on purpose?”

He leans closer and your eyes narrow when you come face-to-face. This is the closest he’s been to you in months. Since Rome. Since before whatever little control you had got buried with your heart at John’s wedding.

“Yes, cara, indeed I _am_,” he admits easily, shameless as always, facing you unflinchingly because it’s who he is. He never shies away and expects the same from you. “Be angry with me. Rage, yell, scream till your lungs give out. _Anything _is better than _this_.”

A knot forms in your chest at his angry, disgusted hiss at the end. At the way he waits, agog—waits for that fire to rise up and match his own.

_Play with me, come on_, those eyes say and you stare at him flatly, your mouth tilting downwards.

“What do you know about it?” you breathe quietly, and there is a muted sort of rage there. It prickles your skin, and your fingers knot in the sheets beneath your palms. “Poor little D’Antonio with his mean daddy who won’t shower him in praise. You have it _so_ hard. Mansions and cars and a mountain of wealth. Freedom to do whatever you _want_.”

If he wants to play this game, you will indulge him.

His expression smoothens, growing colder at your words, and he leans back a touch, his chin tilting. The moment of _almost _ends and the cool, collected heir is all that’s left. 

“So quick to pass judgment, cara mia,” he points out softly, icily. Still, his eyes drag over your weary features and there is determination there. “Join me for breakfast.”

“Why?”

His lips curve and he leans forward without warning again, his breath tickling against your ear. “Because I asked _nicely _and I rarely do that, no?”

You shove him back with your hand and he hums, seemingly entertained. 

“Asshole.”

He stands to his feet, not a stitch out of place, and stretches to his full height, glancing at you before offering you his hand.

You ignore it, pulling the covers back yourself as you stumble to your feet, trying to find your balance.

“_Better_,” you hear him acknowledge, and flip him off without looking back as you stride towards the bathroom on shaky legs.

His chuckle sounds immediately, pleased, and you make sure to slam the door shut extra loud behind you.

You didn’t have to get up. You didn’t even think you had it in you to do so.

You cup your hands around that ember inside your chest protectively and soak in its warmth.

Just for a little while.

**.**

“You’ve gotten worse.”

Stabbing a fork into the fluffy pancake on your plate, you don’t answer.

The sun is bearing down on you both, warming your neck as you sip on your juice without engaging him. It tastes good. Freshly squeezed and organic no doubt—only the best for the Italian prince.

Santino exhales forcefully. He’s not used to being ignored and he doesn’t like it. 

_Good_.

“You weren’t like this when you were staying with us,” he tries again and you ignore the resentment you can hear coating his words. “_He_ did this to you.”

Your head lifts, your mouth a hard line, and find Santino half leaning across the small table towards you. He always does that you realise suddenly. Like he’s being dragged closer by an invisible rope.

He’s right though. Even if you hate the fact that he is.

Camorra for all its awful brutality and endless ambition had been a safe haven. It had been routine and focus and purpose. Most days you were so busy you had no time to think about anything else. You were hunted and wanted to change that.

So you shed your skin—the skin that was soft because you hadn’t realised just how much John had shielded you from before—and became a hunter yourself.

The Hunt had been a poetic slaughter—a baptism of blood.

Giovanni D'Antonio allowed you space under his roof because you had been relentless. So relentless to return the favour that with time he might have even offered you a place in his ranks and tried to buy you out from the Russian.

Camorra had been a twisted hope of belonging somewhere.

It had been _friendship _and _hope_.

Had.

“Why burgundy?” you ask him instead because it’s been plaguing you. “I have no position of power for you to seek an alliance with me.”

He blinks, exhaling, and then his mouth quirks. His features soften a touch and you ignore the fact that he appears beyond pleased with you.

“You _remembered_.”

Only because his family and the endless list of traditions and laws infused into the very foundation upon which that empire of blood and bones stands is _fascinating_. You’ve always been eager for knowledge because that’s what keeps you alive and both heirs had obliged you happily.

Many things they kept from you because you were still seen as an outsider but it hadn’t mattered.

Santino never lacked enthusiasm when it came to you wanting to know more about Camorra.

Because he’s proud of his family. Because he’s proud of his position _in _it. Because if he’s capable of love you think that Camorra might be the only thing he truly loves.

But articulating all that seems exhausting so you offer him a half-hearted shrug in response.

Still, this seems to have brightened his previously foul mood and he rests his chin on his folded fingers, his elbows digging into the table as he peers at you. His ring glints in the sunlight, momentarily distracting you.

“My intention is exactly what you think it was,” he reveals calmly. “I need you to come with me to Chicago, cara mia. This job is rather important to me personally.”

“Important enough to lie _Winston _about it.”

His smile is slow coming this time around and all teeth. A sinful, wicked soul residing inside a shell of a man with golden skin, dark curls and piercing eyes. Handsome, dangerous package. A temptation very few have resisted, you know as much.

“Perhaps,” he purrs gently and you force yourself to lower your eyes back to your food. “But I need someone like you. An individual who can deliver _and _be discreet about it. Besides what Winston doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, no?”

_I need you._

You wonder if he’s realised that he’s said it twice in a span of less than five minutes. There is no emphasis on words or deliberate pauses. No indication at all that he’s said them on purpose. In fact, he appears entirely focused on your conversation, his voice smooth and steady.

“What is it?”

He seems even more pleased with your show of interest.

“It wasn’t entirely a lie, bella,” he says breezily, leaning back in his seat as his hands lower back onto the table. “It _is _undercover. Every five years operational managers from our world meet for a conference of sorts. Everything from food to clothing to weaponry is discussed. Hands are shaken, deals are struck, _ah _you know how it goes, cara, no? This year this very special event is being held in Chicago. We will attend it.”

You stare at him as you chew and swallow before forcing another bite of pancake into your mouth. You feel full already but you’ve only eaten half of one. You can—_need_—to eat more. Easier to do so with this distraction, with those eyes tracking every bite you take.

“You need me to kill someone.”

Not a question and those round, pleasant features draw into something remote, downright chilling. In that look, you see something else, something bloodthirsty. It makes you remember the words you associated with his name before your first meeting.

_Charming. Power-hungry. Not to be trusted._

Fitting even now.

No, looking at him right now, it’s more fitting than ever.

“Yes,” he admits lightly with a pleasant little hum but his eyes _rage_. “And I want him to _suffer_.”

_Interesting_.

“I could go in alone—”

“No. You will never make it. This is a High Table related event and the security there will be unlike anything you have ever encountered,” he rebukes, and his words wash over you with the intent that tells you he’s been waiting for this moment for a while. “My name is your ticket inside. But most importantly Continental style rules apply. _No_ bloodshed. It’s neutral ground for trading. No one can know it was you or the consequences will be...severe.”

There is more he’s not telling you.

“What do I get in return?”

Santino D'Antonio raises the espresso cup to his mouth and watches you over the rim like he’s already _won_. “1.5 million USD, cara mia. Agree and it’s yours. You have till twilight to decide.”

**.**

Charon stands beside Winston as the manager goes through the documents in front of him.

The concierge notices you first, his glasses reflecting the warm glow of the fireplace as you approach.

Winston’s attention follows several seconds later and the man straightens when he sees you, slipping his glasses off as you halt before him.

You haven’t seen him in days. Almost two weeks, in fact.

He takes you in with a critical eye before gesturing to the unoccupied seat opposite to him.

Slipping smoothly into the space you both observe each other for several moments.

“So,” Winston begins, his tone loaded. “Is signor D’Antonio dead or did you finally grow weary of his company?”

That almost makes you smile.

“Neither.”

A twitch of his expression but it’s so slight that you can’t quite read it.

“Yet here you are,” he notes calmly and something lingers in his tone, in his gaze, too. “Out and about. Looking better as well.”

Do you?

You don’t feel like it but you haven’t been feeling much of anything lately.

“I need access to my room,” you decide to cut to the chase and tap your fingers against the table as your eyes slide around the room. Few pairs of eyes skitter away under your attention. _Good_. This is the legacy of your bloodshed. “I need to prepare.”

Winston exhales and his regard changes. “You agreed then?”

You don’t look at them but you can tell both men are tracking your every breath. “In theory.”

You don’t elaborate further because Winston knows better than anyone that business and confidentiality are key.

“Wonderful. Though I would take this moment to remind you what kind of man you are dealing with.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you do smile this time even if it feels hollow. “You mean the very same one you threw me at?”

Winston’s expression doesn’t so much as shift. “Do you expect me to apologise? Because I have no intention of doing so,” he voices curtly and you don’t feel surprised by his words. “I took a gamble that paid off. But Santino D’Antonio is vain, bloodthirsty and arrogant. You would be wise not to trust him.”

Typical Winston. Always three steps ahead of everyone else.

A small scoff escapes you at his words and you lean back into the comfortable, plush seat. “Believe me,” you state coolly and tap your foot against the floor, once and then again. It takes a lot of energy—just like this entire trip has with your weak muscles and heavy head—but you force yourself to do it anyway. “He’s at the very bottom of the list of people I would ever trust. I know what he is.”

Just as monstrous as the rest of you. Maybe even more so.

But you’re not here seriously considering his offer because he asked nicely or offered you a mountain of money that will feed Tarasov’s greed.

You’re here due to the unspoken thing you can’t help but wonder if he’s even aware of.

The initial two-week deadline is up in less than two hours and yet he’s made no other preparations. Has taken no extra precautionary measures in case his plan backfires and you don’t agree. Despite how he keeps stressing that this job is so important to him, he’s waiting on _you_.

In Camorra, there is no such thing as “irreplaceable”. If someone is unavailable or incapable other options are sought out with startling ease. 

He _believes_ that you will do it.

It’s not about his need for you.

It’s that _belief_.

It…

It makes you want to fight, too, and you don’t know _why_ but you want to at least _try_.

Winston takes a sip of his drink, considering you and bobs his head once. “Good. It’s still better than being alone.”

He reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a keycard, sliding it across the smooth mahogany table. Something in your chest ceases at the sight of it, at the fact that he’s had it on him _this whole time_.

“You figured that I will agree.”

It’s not a question but he still replies with a calm, “Not at all. I hoped that you won’t disappoint, of course,” he notes and there is a brief glimmer of a smile before it’s gone. “And you haven’t.”

You’re both quiet for several moments after that. Charon says nothing as always.

Your unsteady fingers wrap around the card eventually, and you stand with a nod in their direction, straightening.

“Charon. Winston.”

The older man salutes you with his martini. “_Bonus fortuna_.”

You turn to go and wonder what it means that men like Winston and Santino D’Antonio have more faith in you than you do.

**. . .**

LaGuardia airport appears in your sights half an hour later.

Santino’s men greet you at the entrance of the airport.

Private check-in, private everything. Security is nonexistent when you’re flying with a man of such power and influence.

Ares greets you outside the private jet and you watch a slight grin transform her steely expression into something a bit more cordial.

_He is waiting for you inside. Good to be working with you again, pretty viper._

She goes slower than usual so you catch everything, and you appreciate it because you’re still learning ASL. Not to mention the fact that it feels like your brain is just barely functioning.

“Likewise.”

Climbing up the stairs, you nod at the flight attendant who beams back you when you pass her to get inside.

Even the vast, luxurious space can’t seem to contain Santino D’Antonio and his larger than life presence. Every line crisp and tidy, he hardly looks any different than usual. But tinted shades hide his eyes as he stares out of the window. Those long, graceful fingers tap restlessly against the table and you take him in for several stolen seconds.

His head snaps in your direction when you enter the plane and he stills at the sight of you.

You can’t see his eyes as you approach but feel the intensity of his regard all the same. “1.5 mil was it?”

You both know it’s not about the money. It never has been with you. But it’s easier to pretend that it is. If only because that’s safe and familiar.

Santino slips off his sunglasses with a slight chuckle, looking up at you from beneath his lashes as you plop down tiredly in the seat opposite to the heir. It’s like sitting down on a cloud.

He folds the shades and hooks them on his shirt pocket with practised ease. He seems to have a penchant for making every little gesture appear effortlessly elegant and pretentious at the same time.

That little quirk of his lips remains though.

“Indeed it was, cara mia,” he says and extends his hand towards you. “A deal is a deal.”

You grasp his warm hand in yours with the intention of shaking it but as always Santino acts on his own accord. He lifts your palm to his lips and kisses your knuckles instead, his heated breath tickling your skin as he peers at you. That ghost of a smirk is softer this time, and you pull your hand back with a roll of your eyes.

He considers you for a moment before glancing over your shoulder and nodding only once. Behind you, the crew prepares for take-off.

“How long were you going to wait for me?”

Santino’s head slants in thought but his expression is serious. The switch surprises you somewhat but you wait, ignoring the fatigue in your bones.

Ares passes you both with a wave and two guards behind her, heading towards the back of the plane without so much as a backwards glance and you blink.

Deliberate again. Clearly, Santino has something he wants to discuss in private.

He appears deep in thought, going between looking out of the window and you as the jet leaves the ground below. It’s a smooth and trouble-free take off because Santino always hires professionals of the highest degree. Certain things are routine with this man and there _is_ a certain degree of comfort to be found in that. 

“You lied to me.”

It’s been long enough that his voice startles you and your muscles tense, your mind immediately flying to all the weapons you have on you.

He seems to notice the way your body locks up just for a moment before relaxing again and his gaze darkens.

“What?”

“When I check in after you left Rome,” he begins and you suddenly understand what this is about. “You told me that you were back at the Continental safe and well. Working.”

You did.

“I wasn’t lying,” you retort tightly, guarded. “I _was _working.”

“_Oh_? Is that so? _Work_.”

Ignoring the scorn in his voice, you give him a fair warning, “If we are to do this job together,” you state icily, a warning ringing through your words. “Then you don’t ask me anything. Better yet, don’t talk about the past at all.”

That dangerous flame licks across his features, tightening his expression. For a prolonged, charged moment you simply survey one another. He saw it after all. How terrible it can be.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight to Chicago.

**.**

The presidential suite is as grand as all other places Santino usually stays at. 

The spacious, high-ceilinged room is located on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking over the beautiful ravine that is Lake Michigan.

The sleek, white walls somehow manage to add dimension to an already large square footage by still remaining welcoming. Decorated tastefully with glossy cabinets, lavish loveseat and colourful armchairs to not detract from the massive canopy bed sitting in the furthest corner of the room. The velvety covers and plush cream pillows have never seemed more inviting and your eyes linger on it the longest.

There’s just enough bold colour sprinkled through the room to remove the clinical factor such bright space might bring to mind, and you peek an adjoined en-suite bathroom hiding behind one of the doors you walk by.

It’s curious how despite Santino’s life back in Italy being rooted in tradition whenever he stays anywhere else, he always chooses modern, contemporary designs.

This is the height of luxury—a welcoming card, cuvee white brut champagne, fresh fruit and chocolates already laid out in a neat manner—and behind the connecting door to your right lies this room’s twin image.

“We can discuss further details tomorrow, bella,” Santino says but doesn’t look at you as he does so. “You should rest.”

You wonder if he can tell that you’re standing upright by sheer will alone. There is a tremble in your knees as you move and your steps are heavier than usual.

You’ve grown _weak_.

The muscle that has been forged through years of brutal training has softened and diminished.

When did you allow yourself to become _this_?

When did you let Kishi _win_?

_Never give someone else the power to destroy you._

But you have done exactlythat. No matter how much you’ve been trying to dress it up, this fact still stands.

You _have _been punishing yourself.

It should make you feel something, you imagine. Furious, upset, determined, sad.

Anything at all.

Instead, you just feel tired.

Tired and cold, and like something has been raked right out of you, leaving a hole behind that might never be filled. A hole that you can pour happiness and hope and sadness into and it still won’t matter. Because nothing can fill what’s bottomless. Nothing can fix something like that.

You want to try but—

But you’re not sure if you’re strong enough.

Nodding your head, you head towards the bed without a word.

Santino slams the door to his half of the suite with enough force to rattle the hinges.

**.**

Water slides down your throat, scratching and tearing at your vocal cords as you choke on your screams.

You’re jerked back by the hair and Kishi smiles, caressing your cheek with stiff, cold fingers.

_Your hands are dirty, viper_, he hums lovingly and grabs you by the back of your neck, **_you_**_ are dirty. Time to get you clean._

You jolt into wakefulness as hands drag you forward abruptly and your forehead connects with a solid chest instead.

“Calm, _shh_, you are awake,” a voice urges with gentle but instant fingers digging into your shoulder blades. The comfort of that touch is so familiar that deep down it makes you gush with agony, some distant loss you can’t name. “You’re safe.”

_Safe_.

“John,” you sob, blindly clinging to that warmth, to silent strength there. “_John_.”

The figure freezes, tenses. A few shallow breaths follow and then a hand settles on the top of your head. Those muscles relax gradually and careful fingers stroke your hair. Soothing. Slow.

“Don’t—don’t _leave_,” you beg weakly and cling tighter, _tighter _because you love him so much and it _hurts_— “Please don’t leave m-me.”

That grip tightens and holds you closer, cocooning you in warmth. For once, the ever-present chill in your soul seems to ebb, fade just a little.

“I won’t, amore,” he reassures softly. “I won’t.”

You believe him.

**.**

You dreamt of John last night.

Of comfort and him staying. Fingers smoothing over your hair in that achingly familiar manner he used to touch you with when it was just you two alone. When you managed to mangle that iron-like willpower of his by leaning into him, seeking him out.

Remembering that warmth makes you both devastated and happy. It’s like a soothing balm against wounds that refuse to heal. But it’s also a knife cutting deeper and deeper.

You swore to yourself that you would let go but—

That, too, is hard.

A folder slides across the table surface and towards you, hitting your hands and you jump in your seat, rigid.

Ares shoots you an apologetic look as she goes to stand in the corner of the private breakfast room, clasping her hands in front of her, and you squint at the folder, forcing yourself back into reality.

“What’s this?”

“That, cara mia, is information about your target,” Santino explains over the rim of his espresso but his tone remains dispassionate. There’s something odd about him today but you don’t care enough to ask him. “Read it carefully.”

Opening the manila folder, you move several pieces of paper aside, blinking at the pictures of a stern-faced man. They’re black and white but they reveal a male who looks no more than five years older than Santino, his features handsome in a hard, rugged sort of way. His short hair is either brown or black and though all photos are too far away to be able to tell for sure, his eyes appear dark, too. Brown or hazel if you had to make a guess.

He’s handsome, but there is something about his features that makes you think of Tarasov. Makes you think of enough charm to get by but preference for brutality instead.

His face tells you that trusting this man would be unwise.

“Who is he and why do you want him dead?” you question after a moment of analysing the pictures.

_Rafael Conte_

A part of you can’t help but wonder what this man has done to evoke the wrath of the Camorra heir. Though, as always, it likely has something to do with greed and egos.

Santino doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he spreads jam across his toast but there is something…violent about the way he drags the blade across the perfectly toasted surface. Something about the way his hair is unstyled today and a few messy, loose strands fall into his eyes. Something about the way his movements are jerkier than usual, less refined.

He’s back in a full three-piece this morning but a voice at the back of your mind whispers _armour_. Because this is different from those two weeks you spent at the penthouse. He rarely wore a suit at all during that time. There was something more open and casual about him then.

“Oh, you aren’t killing this man,” he finally speaks and you frown minutely at the way he lowers the butterknife back onto his plate a little too loudly, then sighs, and looks up at you with forced calmness. “We will be using him to get to your _actual_ target. We need to be very careful about what we do here, cara mia. This man can lead us to the man he serves, and it’s him that I need you to dispose of.”

Still frowning, you look back towards the pictures. Santino’s attention lingers on your face but you ignore it. 

“Why wait this long?”

“What do you mean?”

Your head slants and you regard him with a knowing, calculated look. Santino doesn’t answer you, however, he simply stares back, and the look in his eyes challenging. You know he wants you to engage and so you do. After yesterday, after that fleeting memory of warmth, you feel like you have the strength to do so.

“Why wait for some obscure event with a ridiculous level of security when you could get rid of this man on a Tuesday afternoon while sipping lemonade in your parlour?”

Because that’s easy and clean. Because he won’t have to lift a finger and get needed results unless—

“Tell me, bella,” Santino begins, interrupting your racing thoughts and his index finger traces the rim of his cup lazily. “Have you heard of an organisation called the Black Dragon?”

Your tongue works quicker than your mind. “John—”

The words die in your throat; a feeble, pathetic crumbling of syllables.

The temperature inside the bright, sunny room seems to fall by several degrees. 

Santino’s fingers are still, his attention focused on his cup. His toast remains untouched.

Forcing down the lump in your throat down, you force out a strained, “He’s told me about them before. Private organisation. Janitors of the High Table, right?”

“Indeed,” he intones coolly in reply and taps his fingers again, more agitated this time. “We are here to kill its current leader. A man by the name of Andre Boutin. The issue, however, is that if you search for a definition to word ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary that man’s name will be under it.”

He lifts the cup back to his lips again but those bright viridescent depths zero in on you. A shadow lingers across his features, and once again you can’t help but feel like he’s not being completely honest with you—there is more to this than he’s letting on.

“He never leaves his secret little lair unless the High Table forces his hand,” Santino continues and cuts a neat piece of his toast before biting into it. It doesn’t surprise you that like a true, refined heir he chews and swallows before speaking again. “Hm, but he _will_ have to attend this event. Signor Rafael is his right-hand man. Aside from the standard proceedings, there will be…exclusive invitations into certain circles. We are to get Rafael’s attention and penetrate his. That’s the only way to get to Boutin, bella, and it’s crucial we do so. Tomorrow will be our only chance.”

“No traces?”

His eyes narrow and he nods his head once, dead serious. “None, not even a whisper of one,” he says solemnly, his heir ring tapping against the ceramic of the cup once, twice. “You are to be beautiful but harmless. I know Rafael personally. I will get you close enough.”

But he never places himself in the firing sight. Never dirties his own hands. Just how desperate is he to see this man dead to do so _now_? At an event that will have so many eyes from the highest circles of those under the High Table on you no less.

“You mean you need me to act as your whore,” you deadpan and go on before he can interject. “You need me to fool them, pull the wool over their eyes. But what if someone recognises me?”

Santino looks like he’s biting back a sigh and inclines backwards into his seat, staring at you. Those loose curls fall into his eyes and for a moment they distract you. “I would prefer if you did not use such…phrasing, but I suppose in a sense, yes,” he tells you and you stab a piece of melon with extra vigour before placing it between your lips. For the briefest of seconds, the man before you focuses on that tiny little movement before his attention shifts. “I also recognise the, _ah_, dangers. It does seem likely someone might but I’m not trying to hide you, carissima. You have spent a year with my family. You by my side is no longer a novelty. It might even be expected in certain circles.”

He pauses at that, his lips parting like that realisation is just hitting him, too.

You by his side is nothing new. _You_ by _his_ side. He says it with such ease, such boldness—like it’s as obvious as the sun rising every morning.

A silence that follows those words is different somehow. Almost like you have both become intimately aware of each other’s presence in your lives and all the time you _have_ spent together.

“You don’t want this attached to your name,” you say frankly, at last, forcing casualness into your words. “Only a handful of guards with you. All this secrecy. This goes beyond killing a lackey of the High Table. What did this man do, Santino?”

Because he would never take such a personal risk unless he had no other choice. But that’s also why he needs you. A clean, untraceable kill. Even if people were to suspect him there would be nothing to stick on him personally. Clever, unprincipled bastard.

“_That_,” the Italian mutters, his voice wooden. “Is of no importance. You are here to kill Andre Boutin and that’s all that matters. Do you think you can you do that for me, bella, _hm_?” 

This is _personal_. That much you do know.

But something about this challenge fills you with determination to hold onto that warmth from last night.

Maybe wherever John is, his spirit is still looking out for you.

So for now at least, you decide to let the topic go. He does have a point after all. You’re not getting paid to ask questions.

“Sure I can,” you demure slyly and smother your grin against the glass of juice in your hand. Santino blinks, seemingly taken off guard by the unexpected teasing, at your spark of energy. “Anything specific wardrobe wise you want me to wear? Aside from the obvious.”

Something bold yet tantalising enough to make most people in that little get together hate you and want to fuck you in the same breath. Such is Santino D’Antonio’s way. He has to court attention at all times. You cannot be seen as less. When it comes to appearance Santino never spares expense. What a spoiled _prick_.

His gaze sharpens at your words, and that heat returns as he scrutinises you.

He hums quietly, his eyes dragging over your figure before saying, “Green. Wear something green,” he instructs lightly and when he meets your stare next, you do feel something inside you settle and still. “But I need them to look at you and feel like they can’t _breathe_.”

_ **. . .** _

_Where is the fire that I adore so? Do not tell me that he robbed you of it so completely, cara mia._

He hasn’t.

You had wanted to say that to Santino last night but couldn’t.

John hasn’t—

But _hasn’t_ he?

It’s a destructive cocktail of anger and bitterness and doubt churning deep inside your chest. A part of you misses John with an intensity that shakes your bones; fracturing them and unmaking them with swift, expert proficiency. Another part of you hates him. He let you believe that he loved you but then chose another woman over you the moment a possibility of a _normal_ life came up. Better drop the dead-weight. Better to erase the messed up, traumatised weakling from his life. Be done with it.

No, John hasn’t robbed you of anything.

He gave you a _different_ sort of fire.

A flame of rage and longing all fusing together to create something far more devastating.

But last night…

You’ve almost forgotten what that’s like—being carefree, smiling, doing something so simple yet freeing.

Santino D’Antonio had given you a moment of yourself back without realising it. You’re not quite sure what to do with that knowledge. With the memory of your messy dance and that whisper of wonder in his eyes as he took in your smiling expression.

A knock resonates again your door and your head slants in the direction of the sound. “Come in.”

Ares pokes her head in first before stepping into the room already dressed in a tailored suit. It’s a dark, patterned number mixing black and deep grey tastefully. The black shirt she wears underneath is neatly pressed, and the pin she bears under her throat in an illusion of a tie is of Camorra making. She looks amazing and carries herself like she knows it, too. Dark makeup around her eyes accents the piercing nature of her blue eyes and you click your tongue. 

“Trying to outshine me?” you joke but she doesn’t reply, taking in your appearance as well. Smiling, you run a hand down the body of the dress and towards the shimmering skirt. “What do you think?”

Her eyebrows jump up deliberately, staying that way as she signs with her eyes still on you. _You fulfilled the brief._

You’ve certainly _tried_.

Your hair and makeup have all been done by expert hands because you didn’t trust your own. Not right now. Not with muscle weakness and the tremors.

You’re glad that this mission is not an active job that will require fighting your way out of a situation. Right now, you can admit—even only to yourself—that you would be more of a liability than an advantage in a physical fight. You can’t be seen shedding blood at this event and perhaps this is the best kind of job to ease yourself back into things.

That dedication to see an assignment through was bred into you by John, and now that you’re here no matter how empty things might feel, a part of you wants to see it finished no matter what.

It’s refreshing.

Wanting something.

“Where is Santino?” you ask her, turning to go, double-checking all your weapons—what few you could sneak in—are all on you. “I haven’t heard him in his room.”

Ares waits for you by the door as you approach, shrugging. _He went ahead. He will meet us there._

“Is Piero with him?”

Ares nods and you both leave the room together, heading down the hallway.

Another security measure. Every invited person is allowed to take but one guard with them. Two, if they come with a plus one which in Santino’s case is you. A measure introduced to appease the inherently paranoid nature of the people attending but also avoid any potential…disagreements. When you have one guard you are far less likely to start making a nuisance of yourself.

A car is waiting for you outside when you and Ares exit the foyer, and you know the venue is only fifteen minutes drive from the hotel. You’ve made sure to analyse the site as much as possible.

A hotel and casino in one, _Paradise_ has served as a hotspot and neutral meeting ground for anyone seeking an audience with Chicago’s Outfit and their Boss. The word is that you either make a deal with them or you don’t leave Paradise alive.

You suppose it’s just your luck that Chicago Outfit and Camorra have a long-running alliance from as early as the bloody 20ties era. Back when Italians have first set their sights on powerhouse cities like New York and Chicago amongst others, waging deadly wars amongst each other for territory.

_An enemy of a friend is always good to have_, Santino had told you with a secretive little smile and a dangerous air of viciousness thick in the air.

You can’t help but wonder if this has—to some degree—been planned for even longer than you first suspected.

If this gathering only happens once every five years and always in a different city and continent, just how long _has_ Santino waited to put this plan into action?

_Chicago_. A city ruled by an Italian-American crime syndicate and ties to Camorra.

_The Black Dragon_. Janitors of the High Table. Trained killers who answer only to their leader and the Table.

_You_. A mission to kill the current leader Andre Boutin. A man who always hides as if fearing _something_.

What did this man _do_?

How do the puzzle pieces fit together?

The car rolls to a stop and you blink out of your stupor, glancing ahead and see Ares turn towards you from the front seat.

_Ready?_

You bob your head once and inhale deeply, letting the oxygen sit in your lungs for several seconds while she exits the expensive vehicle and opens the door for you. You take her offered hand with a silent squeeze of thanks.

From this moment on, you are no longer you.

Your heels hit the damp pavement and the Vipress steps out.

Ares shadows your side as you trek up the extravagant staircase to the Paradise hotel, ignoring the flurry of snowflakes that settle in your hair. The attendants greet you both, checking your name on the guest list, then weapons, and you’re both ushered inside with polite, stiff nods. Your coat gets taken at the door and you dip your head in a cool, disinterested manner—just enough to appear polite.

Ares is a silent phantom by your side.

_The gathering has started already. S will be waiting for you by the staircase to the ballroom. You both need to be seen._

_Should we not go straight for the target?_

_S believes appearing innocuous first is your priority._

Your eyes sweep over several individuals around the foyer who shift at being caught staring, clearly uncomfortable at your signing, and you suppress a remorseless smile. _Good_.

Santino wasn’t exaggerating though, most people around are unfamiliar to you. These people are the wheels that keep the underworld business rolling but they are not Tarasov or Giovanni. These people are at the top of their own food chain but under the Table, they are specks only.

The grand staircase leads up a level where the hotel rooms are located and downstairs where the ballroom and casino can be found.

Ares moves a step behind you as you descent slowly, taking your time with the gown and the shoes. A dull twinge of weakness still locks your knees and you force yourself to focus on your every move.

Just like the woman behind you warned, Santino waits a little away from the main staircase, chatting with the burly, brown-haired Piero in hushed voices.

He’s striking tonight.

Admittedly, Santino _always_ looks good—he takes special pride in his appearance, you know that much—but today he made an effort and it shows.

The suit he wears is as dark as the richest night, tailored to fit him to perfection, and the light reflects a peculiar shine of the material whenever he moves. His hair is neatly combed and those unruly curls pulled back but you can already see a few rebellious strands trying to free themselves. The white shirt he sports under the suit is blinding and a satin bowtie rests around his throat, pulling the dignified image together.

His black dress shoes might as well be mirrors.

Santino looks like an arcane, sinful dream and you know many recognise the Camorra heir as he stands there with an air of effortless arrogance.

His eyes flicker away for a second, scanning the room and snag on you just as you reach the final step, your dress skirt dragging down the polished marble and falling against your legs as you walk with deliberate slowness towards the heir.

Santino doesn’t have to fake his reaction and that’s good—too many eyes on you.

He stills and you note the slight downwards dip of his shoulders as if whatever oxygen he _did_ have in his lungs has fled.

His lips parted, he watches your approach unblinking and with pulse-pounding sort of intensity. He doesn’t bother masking the raw desire in his regard, either, and there is a nudge of surprise when you feel a flicker of warmth in your chest in response.

You’ve _missed_ this. Being seen by someone. Being desired openly and without shame.

Not pausing, you walk right up to him and wrap your arms around him, resting your nose against the smooth skin of his neck.

Santino goes stiff with surprise and you tilt your head so your lips brush against his ear, “There are eyes on us. Wrap your arms around me right now,” you direct quietly and pull him closer with a smile. “Touch me as if we’re lovers.”

He does.

His right arm snakes around your waist before trailing up your back, his burning fingertips brushing against your bare shoulder blades. His breaths are shallow but he leans in and presses a brief kiss against your shoulder as his hand drags back down the arch of your spine. Slow, wanton. You have to suppress a genuine shiver despite your best efforts to play your own little act.

Pulling back, you remain right against him, meeting his stare and Santino’s eyes wander over your features, guarded.

The reservation is surprising. Is he gauging what he can get away with without you snapping at him?

He gave you a brief, a job to do. You intend to fulfil it. The last thing you need is to be caught as well. That means playing the part to perfection.

“Looking quite handsome, darling,” you tell him with the slightest curl of your mouth. Your fingers skim over the velvety material of his bow tie and you glance at him from under your lashes. “Am I to your liking tonight?”

He licks his bottom lip and his sizeable pause generates amusement deep down that you don’t let anyone see. For once the man with a silver tongue has nothing to say.

“Yes, amore,” he says thickly and his stare doesn’t stray from you. “You are _breathtaking_.”

Clever bastard.

He might as well be undressing you with his eyes but that’s the _point_.

The black gown you wear glimmers like a thousand little jewels—and indeed every inch of the light material is stitched with little gems that depending on light reflect silver or dark green. The dual-chrome aspect makes every step you take a visual feast and thin spaghetti straps made out of strings of tiny gems glitter in the light as well. The cut at the back of the dress dips all the way to your lower back and Santino’s fingers press into your skin. Tracing, lingering.

Leaning back slightly, you reach for your clutch, pulling out a silky piece of cloth that matches the reflective green of your dress.

Santino’s hand still rests securely against your lower back, and you peek at him as you place the handkerchief in the otherwise empty suit pocket. With delicate fingers you smooth the pocket square into neat lines, dragging your palm deliberately down his chest after. You stare at each other for several moments, ignoring everyone else around.

Well, not you. You’ve already counted the exits and the guards present with every guest in the nearby vicinity. Taken stock of most of their weapons, too.

_Who is the biggest threat?_ John’s low voice questions in your ear and you take note of that as well. _Keep them in your sight. _

Santino, on the other hand, looks like he can barely recall _where_ he is.

“Shall we?”

Before he can answer another voice speaks first.

“Santino D’Antonio. It has been a while,” a deep voice calls with an accent you can’t quite place. It almost makes you think French but there is a sprinkling of something else there. “Giovanni couldn’t be bothered to attend himself?”

There is an accusation in that question and you control your expression. Letting surprise show now won’t be in your best interest. You are a shell, a plaything, a snake in the garden.

Still, not many would have the guts to speak like that about Giovanni D’Antonio—and to his son no less.

You only turn towards the owner of the voice after Santino does, and his grip on you tightens briefly before relaxing. You’re still practically hip to hip and behind you, Ares and Piero slip closer; a subtle manoeuvring. 

Tucking yourself into Santino’s right side, you give him room to shake hands with the man who comes to a stop before you. He’s taller and broader than you both and that handsome but stern face makes your instincts prickle in real life even more so than the pictures did.

“Rafael,” the Italian greets smoothly, and yet you can hear the subtle contempt in his tone as he drops the man’s hand. “Always a pleasure to see you. Father could not attend. Business with the Triad, I’m afraid.”

You have no idea if that’s true or not but regardless Santino says it with enough conviction that even a priest would believe him.

Your mark doesn’t look convinced though.

Rafael Conte in his immaculate grey two-piece suit eyes Santino with cool disdain that hides behind a ghost of a smile. Clearly, there is no love lost between the two. So much for knowing the man personally.

“I’m sure that’s the case,” he states flatly, and his dark eyes slide towards you. He looks you up and down like a butcher assessing livestock and you work to keep your expression open and friendly, shy even. “Your plus one, I assume.”

“Wonderful, is she not?” Santino poses icily and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

Rafael’s eyes linger on the skin of your thigh that peaks from between the slit in your dress. Then they drag towards your hips and deep plunge of your neckline before he finally meets your stare. The entire assessment lasts no longer than a scant few seconds but whatever he observes he seems to find lacking.

“Not your usual type,” he intones in deliberate, clipped Italian. “Couldn’t find an attractive model to fuck instead?”

The air crackles with tension as two men stare at each other, silent.

This isn’t going like expected, so reading the situation and its potential deterioration, you decide to gamble, “Actually,” you begin sweetly, in equally deliberate Italian, and Rafael’s attention snaps to you. “Most nights I fuck him so thoroughly that he doesn’t want to leave the bed the next morning. Isn’t that right, _Santi_?”

You’ve never called him that before and you sense the minute twitch of his muscles in reply.

His fingers sink into your hip firmly but his words are calm, genial. “I have nothing to complain about,” he admits mildly, turning to look at you and you meet his reticent gaze with a slight, coy smile. “You always impress, _principessa_.”

Turning back towards your mark, you find those inky eyes focused on you and blink innocently.

“This one has a mouth on her,” he says, his words terse and he looks you up and down again. “Might get her into trouble one day.”

Santino smiles but it’s more of a predator baring his teeth in warning as he presses you closer to him. “_Ah_, it’s a rather delightful mouth I reassure you, and I could never resist a bit of danger, Rafael. You know how it is.”

The muscular man scoffs. “Your lack of self-control is well known, D’Antonio,” he notes briskly, and the sarcastic bite of his deep voice is offset only by the easy smile he flashes you both. It softens his forbidding expression but doesn’t hide the contempt. “I certainly hope you’re here to do some _actual_ business instead of wasting everyone’s time. But do enjoy your evening,” he adds with a purse of his lips.

He brushes past your party without another word, every step purposeful and you can practically hear the grind of Santino’s teeth beside you. Placing your hand on top of his, you pull his attention towards you.

“A dance, darling?”

He doesn’t reply, simply wrapping his arm tighter around your waist and leading you both towards the ballroom where the main event is being held. Behind you, Ares and Piero fall in step behind you.

The room itself is massive and decorated in tasteful greys and silvers—Chicago Outfit’s colours, you recall. A canopy hangs across the ceiling, a million tiny fairy lights creating an illusion of the night sky. Your gaze swings towards the massive dance floor where a glistering chandelier hangs suspended above the already dancing guests. In fact, the vast space is already full of people milling around and chatting business. Champagne, whiskey, bourbon and wine are only a couple of the drinks you spot being poured around the room. Later, when the masks fall away, you know everything from cocaine to ecstasy will be served just as openly.

Across the room, you spot the entrance to the private casino section but know that it won’t be in use till later. After these _civilised people_ do their song and dance of being _normal_.

Santino cuts straight towards the dancing guests, only giving Ares and a vague tilt of his head to indicate that the plan is now in motion.

The said plan was always to catch Rafael’s attention _here_. Running into him this early had never been part of your previously discussed play.

A strain weighs across Santino’s face when he pulls you on the dance floor just as the live band finishes playing a song and starts another. 

His arm settles around your waist and you step closer towards him, your fingers lacing together.

He settles you into a rhythm smoothly and you spin across the shiny floor with other patrons. 

“What was that?”

His quiet, indignant question doesn’t surprise you. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his attention remaining on the attendees and you fight back a sigh.

“I was getting his attention,” you murmur in reply, giving his palm a measured squeeze. “Now we’re on his radar. He will watch us twice as often. We will dance and dine and have a _great_ time,” you explain evenly and that familiar focused calm thrums through you. When your eyes meet next, you add a meaningful, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Hand in hand, you spin in a slow circle and his eyes find yours.

“Trust is not a currency I deal in often, cara mia.”

You part, your palms grazing as you circle each other, and you hold his heavy stare.

“See how this whole trust thing works is that you have to _give_ some away before any can be given _back_,” you remind him when he pulls you back to him, and this time you stand close enough to smell his cologne and count his eyelashes as they flutter when he fleetingly looks towards your lips. “Isn’t that what _friends_ are for?”

He notices the mocking edge to your words and his eyebrows arch slightly when he draws you closer.

“Are we _not_ friends, bella?”

You give him an honest answer. “Hardly.”

Something flickers across his expression but it’s gone in an instant and his answering smile is uncaring, forced.

“Such a cruel tongue you have.”

Smiling pleasantly, you hum, “I keep it especially sharpened for you.”

This time, the sharpness recedes and something more honest is left in its place as Santino dips you and unlike last night, this time you’re ready for him. Perhaps the awkward practice paid off after all.

The world tilts and then he pulls you back to him, an array of colours blurring your sight, and for the briefest of seconds, all you can see around you _is_ him. Him and the crooked dip of his grin as he peers at you.

“I have missed this,” he admits in the space between you but even over the dancing guests and the music, you hear him. “_This_ you. Could she perhaps be persuaded to stay, _hm_?”

It would be so easy, you can’t help but think, allowing yourself to tangle in his web. Allowing yourself the privilege of forgetting John and Kishi and Tarasov—of forgetting every dark shadow that haunts you. He almost makes it _easy_. Easy to _breathe_ and _forget_. But you now know what it is to be broken apart when you allow someone else to complete you.

Never again.

Never with a man who will no doubt exchange your company for someone else’s soon. Winston had a point. Santino’s favour is bound to come with an expiration date. One day, he will grow bored of you or resentful because he’ll realise that you will never give him what he truly wants.

One day, inevitably, he will let you down. Replace you. _Leave_.

It’s simply who he is.

Pivoting on your heels, you turn your bodies in a different direction, your steps unfaltering as you move across the floor.

Santino blinks, his silent scrutiny letting up as he squints at you. 

“Are you trying to lead, cara mia?”

“Not trying,” you murmur slyly under your breath, a slight smile lingering across the seams of your mouth. “_Succeeding_.”

The soft set of his lips part and this time his grin shows teeth, dimpling his cheeks. He swiftly pushes your bodies apart, spinning you, and your skirt flares around your legs before he yanks you back to him, your bodies colliding. His arm envelops you immediately, keeping you pressed to him and the warmth of him seeps into you as he watches you through hooded eyes. His thumb caresses the bare skin of your lower back and a shiver crawls down your body as your warm breaths mingle.

You’re out of breath due to acute exhaustion still gnawing at your bones but—

“I could give you anything you want—anything at all. Power, money, jewels, _pleasure_,” he whispers faintly, leaning closer, and you fight to ignore the sultry drag of those words. “The _world_. All you need to do is ask.”

With his power—with the power he might still inherit—you imagine he _could_.

But—

“And what would you want in return? For me to be your pretty, obedient pet?” you whisper back but your voice lacks all the heat his has. Something far more critical twists your words and you meet his gaze, your faces inches apart. “Warming your bed whenever you feel like it until something more exciting comes along? No, I know how this game works, Santino. Men like you collect women and use them to appease your overinflated egos until we’re no longer interesting to you. Then you throw us out like trash. Even though the problem is rarely _us_ but rather _your_ inability to emotionally connect with another human because all you want or care about is fleeting excitement of the chase. Cheap sex on the side. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m no one’s pet.”

His jaw clenches, a ripple of emotions flitting across his features.

“I don’t want a pet.”

Low, wary.

But you push because you don’t believe him. Trust his word even _less_ despite the fact that any and all promises he’s made so far, he’s followed through with. 

“Then what is it that you want?”

He stops. You’re the only two unmoving bodies in a sea of movement.

Those vivid green eyes glow with something you have never seen before as he studies you.

It _is_ desire but—

He reaches up and caresses your cheek; nothing more than a whisper of a touch. 

“_You_.”

A breath rushes out of you.

A lump forms in your throat but you don’t move or speak. It’s like you’re both locked in your own private little bubble and the sheer intensity of Santino’s gaze leaves you with no escape. Your muscles seem to have stiffened up with disbelief. He’s always made it clear what he wanted but…

“Santino D’Antonio! It’s good to see you again.”

He exhales and whatever _it_ was that you saw only moments ago is gone, leaving a far more familiar sight of a proud Camorra heir behind.

He turns to greet an unfamiliar man approaching, his grip on you loosening but not dropping entirely, and you remind yourself that you are _nothing_ to him. Nothing more than an object of desire, a trophy to win, a conquest his damn pride won’t allow him to drop till he succeeds.

You hate the fact that for a second—just one—you had _believed_ him.

Your eyes flicker over the crowd, a blur of faces, before a large man next to a bar catches your attention. 

Rafael Conte takes a slow sip of his drink that dark stare boring holes into you.

Your lips curl.

**.**

Santino _does_ talk business.

He really has covered all his basis and found a legitimate reason to be here—be here and appear unsuspicious as well.

Camorra is one of the wealthiest families in the world and there are plenty of individuals eager to do business with them.

Santino talks—ruthlessness and charm weaving effortlessly—shakes hands and deals business. Number start blurring somewhere in their millions.

You stay by his side through it all. His grip around you is resolute, secure. It’s surprising how natural the fit is, comfortable. Especially because any and all foreign touch since Tokyo makes your skin crawl with disgust. You’ve only ever fit this well beside John but thinking about him now stings terribly so you push the thoughts of him away.

Instead, you focus on your role entirely. Submerge yourself in it so wholly that you can almost believe that’s truly all you are: your job. 

A mindless girl who is desperate for any scrap of attention from the powerful, handsome man beside you.

Fingers ghosting over his neck, leaning into him, giggling in his ear and playing with his fingers—you embody the desire you’re supposed to represent. Santino’s replies are rarely verbal but any and all attention from you _always_ seems to distract him, shattering his concentration.

His fingers rub circles against the swell of your hip in response, and other times he wraps his arm around your shoulders. His cool Camorra ring grazing the skin of your arm as he traces random patterns on your skin.

People stare discreetly. You know by this point more than a few have recognised you. No one dares to comment though.

You imagine that to them you look completely caught in each other. Sharing breathing space and suggestive whispers; heat and something carnal, something only lovers could ever fully grasp.

Buying into the rampant tension between you must be easy.

You succeed in your mission.

Two hours in, a waiter approaches a spot where you and Santino sit—you draped over his lap and arms around his neck while he discusses weaponry with some Romanian crime syndicate representatives—and delivers a scrap of paper with a simple message.

_Join us for poker and business, D’Antonio. Your plus-one can come along as well.—_ ** _R_ **

**.**

You’re in trouble.

Big, fat trouble.

Not because Santino is gambling three million away—though you imagine losing that won’t be in your best interest—but because this intimate setting is even more intimate than you ever would have suspected.

No guards, for one.

The game itself is between six players—counting Santino—in a small closed-off booth section of the casino. Your game is not the only one ongoing but you doubt this kind of money is being thrown around anywhere else. Every man playing seems to have brought their plus ones as well, including Rafael himself. A tall, stunning woman with glossy black hair, beautiful brown skin and shrewd almond eyes.

The problem is that unlike you, these women don’t have to pretend. Their interest is genuine, and when twenty minutes into the game you notice zippers being unzipped and hands starting to wander, you feel something inside your chest shrivel up.

Santino’s grip on you remains and you find yourself clinging to him for a different reason. At first, you play at being shy, burying your face against his neck. He notices, dragging his long fingers down your leg gradually, trying to calm you, as he considers his cards silently and takes another drag of his cigar. He’s purposely trying not to draw attention to either of you. It both amazes you and gives you a sense of reassurance. Perhaps there are some lows that even _he_ won’t stoop to. 

The only issue is that Rafael Conte won’t stop staring at you.

He knows that you’re not too drunk or high enough to stop your hands from exploring. He’s been keeping track of your leisurely sips of champagne the entire evening. If he doesn’t suspect something is not right yet, he will soon. He’s smart. The same chilling, ruthless smart that reminds you of Tarasov.

If you don’t do this…

It all would have been for _nothing_. Another failure. If Rafael suspects something is amiss, if he thinks that you are here for any other reason other than being Santino’s lover—

You will never get access to Andre Boutin.

_Fuck_.

Something cold and slippery rolls inside your stomach at the muffled groan a man closest to you lets out, and the woman wrapped around him titters.

_I—_

_You can do it_, John reassures you gently, gripping your shoulder but you blink and it’s Santino’s hand on you instead.

Your eyes meet in the dim light and his hooded gaze is solemn, cautious. He, too, can see how this situation is escalating. Either you adapt or retreat.

All this preparation. You can’t help but wonder if he would still _force_ you—

Fuck _this_.

And John.

And Santino.

And Kishi and Tarasov and every other asshole that’s ever hurt you.

They can all go to _hell_.

You’re more than this.

You didn’t survive Tokyo and John’s abandonment just to break apart _now_. To fail yet again.

Enough.

**_Enough_**.

_It’s not real, it’s just an act._

Shifting, you practically straddle Santino and feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his head back for better access. Your lips press against his jaw, neck, your other hand tugging on his bowtie till the silken material comes loose between your fingers.

His pulse pounds against your mouth and you kiss that golden skin, sucking on it, your lips tingling. You’ve never been physically this close to him before and the heat of him envelops you, his free hand sliding up your back and settling against the arch of your neck. Those strong digits sink in, firm and eager, but he doesn’t push you closer until you lean into him further. You’re chest to chest. Your fingernails scratch against his scalp deliberately and a small sigh escapes him, warming the blood in your veins.

“D’Antonio.”

Tugging on his shirt, you undo the first two buttons in a second, peppering eager little kisses against the curve of his collarbone. The scent of his musky his cologne sinks into your senses, making your head swim and your lips part, your tongue swiping against the skin—

Santino’s hand tangles in your hair and he pulls you back, his wild stare pitch black. With your fingers buried in each other’s hair, you gaze at him for a heated moment, and he at you. Reaching out, you let your fingertips lightly trace up his neck, pausing on his adam’s apple. You draw a lazy circle with the tip of your nail and his breaths grow heavier. Leaning even closer, you let your fingers trail up his chin before your thumb settles on his parted lips.

He’s staring up at you like he has never seen a sight more divine, more sublime, and the heat between you is sweltering.

You’ve forgotten what it is to feel like you’re burning, igniting, coming apart. 

“D’Antonio.”

This time his self-restraint doesn’t hold, he jerks you to him till you’re fully on his lap, your foreheads almost touching as you eye each other. His fingers slip from your hair, dragging downwards till he’s grasping the side of your face, his own fingers mapping the shape of your lips as he guides you closer. Like a magnet, you follow his pull. Your mouths hover over each other and the tip of your nose nudges against his cheek, mirroring his eagerness. You grasp onto his hair firmer, those strong strands like silk in your grip. If you pull hard enough, if you kissed him, would he _moan_—

“D’Antonio, do you _mind_?”

The haze lifts and you see Santino blink as if snapping himself back to reality, his breaths are laboured, heavy, and you know that you’re hiding him from sight. This slip-up, this moment of hungry eyes and needy touches, is for you alone.

He looks you up and down, as if memorising the sight of you like this—so close to being _his_—before licking his lips and swallowing as he gathers his composure. His elevated breathing and blown pupils betray him, however. His appearance is dishevelled in that gorgeous, seductive sort of way and a stab of satisfaction follows the realisation that _you_ did this to him.

He slides you carefully to one side and you release your grip on his hair, wrapping both arms around him instead as you smile slightly.

The Italian doesn’t look away from you, giving Rafael only a distracted, “_Hm_?”

“Make your next play, then feel free to fuck her if you must,” the man drawls, and you focus on _Santino_ and his _hair_ and his _eyes_ because the careless way Rafael speaks about you sets your teeth on edge. _Keep calm, keep calm, this is not Kishi_. “In fact, after that little display, I’m pretty sure I won’t mind a sampling myself. See if she’s really all mouth.”

Your nails sink into the back of Santino’s shoulders and it takes sizeable effort to keep that bashful smile on your face. The heir finally looks away from you, his attention turning towards your mark, his features hardening.

“Come again?”

Rafael Conte chuckles, a rumble of a sound that unsettles you. “Don’t be shy, D’Antonio,” the man speaks, amused. “You do mine and I’ll do yours. What do you say? Unless mine is not to your liking? I can get another one in here. Two? I’ve heard you’re into that.”

No one else in the room so much as shifts or protests. This is a typical party code for them. Swapping deals, drugs, women, and whatever else they please.

Your skin crawls, those words dousing whatever heat your moment with Santino has managed to awaken in you.

_Don’t let him talk about me like that. Don’t let him touch me. Don’t, don’t, please don’t—_

Those words burn at the back of your throat and you grit your teeth to hold them in. You can’t risk breaking character like this but—

Kishi grins from the shadowed corner of the enclosed room and you suddenly feel sick.

Santino is quiet for a moment.

You watch his side profile with a halted breath, and another beat of silence follows before a slight smile finally tugs one side of his mouth upwards.

It’s a dangerous, dark thing and your stomach twists into knots.

_Please_—

“No one touches my woman,” comes his silky, cold declaration and those long fingers rest on the bare skin of your thigh; possessive, protective. “_No one._”

The terror and revulsion in your veins ebbs, ebbs, his words echoing—

You don’t care about how untrue they are. That you both know that you’re not his in any sense of the word nor will you ever be. 

The conviction, the threat, the protection—those are _real_.

For the first time since Tokyo, since John, you don’t feel alone.

A peculiar sort of hush falls over everyone at that.

“In fact, _hm_, why don’t you go and freshen up, principessa?” he suggests and lifts your chin with his index finger so he can look you in the eyes. “I’m almost done here. We can go back to the hotel after. I’ve missed those pretty sounds you make when I’m inside you. Yes?”

He can _see_ it.

And feel it, too.

The way your skin has gone cold and clammy. How a tremor shakes your muscles. How you grip onto him but your eyes keep skipping towards every shadow in the room. How your serene, sensuous demeanour is no doubt splintering right in front of him.

He’s giving you an out. 

Your nails sink into him briefly and you force yourself to act, force yourself to continue on.

Cupping the side of his face, you press a lingering kiss to his cheek. There is nothing sexual about it. Only a distinct feeling of gratitude that strums through you with the same intensity your earlier interaction did.

Your eyes flutter close briefly, the tip of your nose pressing into the smell of his aftershave, and you image to everyone else it might look like you’re simply clinging onto him, unwilling to be parted. 

Standing on stiff legs, you straighten your spine, and don’t flinch as Santino continues the performance, staring up at you, lowering his cards so he can touch your knee. He rubs a soothing circle there and his lips twitch.

“Don’t take too long now, _hm_?”

Your hand trembles when you reach for him, and you hope that the darkness of the room helps to mask it. Despite that, you still manage to swipe back unruly strands of his hair that have fallen into his eyes. Like a refined feline, he arches into your touch, a faint smirk appearing, and you rearrange your facial expression into something unassuming.

Trying to speak fails, so you simply dip your head once, and pull away from him. It takes everything you have to keep your footsteps steady and unhurried as you exit the small room.

The world around you _splinters_.

_ **. . .** _

_Pathetic._

_Pathetic._

_Pathetic._

_Look at you._

“Shut _up_.”

It’s a choked, weak mess of an exhale. It hurts to talk and you grip the sink harder, your knuckles straining under your skin as you wheeze.

Your frightened eyes reflect in the mirror and you note how your expression crumbles in despair. Just hours ago, you had looked at your reflection in the hotel room mirror and felt beautiful for the first time since Tokyo. Since something was tarnished and stolen away from you.

Now mascara smears under your eyes and your waxen expression betrays you. 

You need—

John.

You need _John_.

_I need you. I need you. Where are you?_

Kishi sinks his bony fingers into your arm and you flinch, jerking backwards. The incandescent bathroom lights scorch behind your closed eyelids, and you grapple for the running tap, letting the freezing water pour over your hands.

It hurts more, petrifies you more, but it also keeps you lucid, coherent enough to hear the bathroom door opening behind you.

“So—sorry, it’s busy! Could—could you please use—”

“The _Vipress_.”

You freeze.

You’re trembling but your head tilts upwards, and in the mirror reflection you see Rafael Conte leaning against the bathroom door with his arms folded over his chest.

Those dark eyes narrow and the grin on his face makes you become terribly aware just how unprepared you are for this type of confrontation. He’s taller, stronger, and heavier.

While usually, that would hardly bother you—both John and Cassian have taught you plenty of ways to take down individuals who severely outclass you in a physical sense—that was _then_.

The husk of a person you have deteriorated to is not as confident in her skills.

How he even found you is beyond you. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, didn’t bother finding Ares in the crowd of people because she was instructed to mingle and collect information. You purposely didn’t go in the casino bathroom or the one right outside the ballroom. You went through the bother of trekking halfway across the hotel just to find a secluded bathroom far away from the main event.

Just your goddamn luck. 

Keeping him in your sight, you straighten.

Where is Santino?

“The viper that never strikes twice. I wondered why D’Antonio would bring you,” the man says after you keep silent and his smile turns more cutting. “But then I realised that this might be something more than _just_ business.”

“This—this is neutral ground,” you force out, trying and failing to keep your voice even. “There is nothing—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man snaps, stepping from the door and you twist around, glaring at him. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know he’s up to something. You _will_ tell me what, or I will send your head back to Viggo Tarasov as a present.”

Your hand flies down but he’s faster.

A pistol appears in front of your face just as your fingers wrap around a blade strapped to your inner thigh.

“I don’t think so,” the man growls and steps closer. “Drop it.”

The water from the tap keeps running noisily, and you try to calculate how quickly he would be able to pull that trigger. Would you be able to throw your blade faster? Or would he react quicker?

_Don’t let him corner you_, John warns sternly, _or_ _you will lose_.

You let the blade drop. Rafael marches towards you, shoving the barrel of the pistol under your chin, tilting your head. He glowers at you, the heavy set of his eyebrows pinching. “Why are you here?”

“Get fucked.”

His palm connects with your cheek, a flare of agony numbing the right side of your face. He jerks you closer by the hair, pressing the barrel painfully into your cheek.

“I will blow your fucking brains out, _princess_,” he warns harshly, and shakes you once, your teeth clenching. “Is D’Antonio really worth dying for? _Answer me!_”

Your knee drives between his legs and you duck when his grip on your hair loosens, ignoring the painful tear. You strike his arm, the pistol slipping but he grabs it just before it falls, kicking you in the stomach as you slam against the sinks with a loud thud. You gasp in pain, trying to grab onto the edge of the basin to straighten yourself, but your weak muscles struggle to obey and Rafael grabs you by the throat. He slams you into the mirror and then again.

And _again_.

The mirror cracks and you choke down a sob of pain, everything blurring.

“You know,” the man pants, and his grip on your neck tightens, choking you. “I expected _more_ from John Wick’s partner. His little protege. But you’re _pathetic_.” 

He slams you against the mirror again. “Tell me what D’Antonio is doing here,” he demands, giving you another shake and you feel something wet staining the back of your head. “Tell me or I will drown the truth out of you.”

A handkerchief gets pushed into the sink, trapping the still pouring water, and you let out a whimper of pure terror.

_No—no—no—_

Rafael grasp you by the back of your neck, and you kick at him but your muscles are frail with exhaustion and panic, failing you when you need them most.

The man hits one of your legs and you crumple, your face flying towards the half-full sink as you let out a sob. No matter how much you struggle or try to push yourself back, you’re not strong enough.

Another brutal shove downwards.

You’re _never_—

The bathroom door slams open with a deafening bang.

“Get your _fucking_ hands off her.”

A slight chuckle against your neck. “D’Antonio. Slow as always.”

The grip on you loosens and you slump to the floor. Footsteps step over you, but Rafael’s gleaming shoes don’t miss your trembling digits. He steps on them on purpose and you flinch as the sink overflows, spilling water all over the white tile floor.

“I will skin you alive for this.”

You can’t remember ever hearing Santino so furious before.

“_Sure_ you will,” Rafael remarks and the mirth in his voice is clear. “You know my father always told me to never trust you D’Antonio’s. He said that you all have the devil in you. Especially your psychopath father and that frigid bitch you have for a sister. _You’re_ just the leftover people tolerate because they’re scared of your father. After San Diego, I knew my father was right.”

“What’s the matter, _old friend_,” Santino wonders in Italian, his voice honey and rage all at once. “Can’t handle a bit of competition, _hm_?”

Your forehead slides across the tiles when you turn your head, a wall of tears blurring your vision as you try to blink them away. Violent shivers wreck your body as water roars in your ears and your body convulses. Blinking, you try to tighten your bruised fingers into a fist. It’s then that your eyes snag onto an object an arm length away from you.

“I sure can. Because I don’t fear weak fuckers like _you_,” Rafael shoots back coolly and you hear the cocking of the pistol as he aims it at Santino. “I would be lying if I said that I will not enjoy this.”

_Santino_.

A meeting in a church.

“_I always get what I want._”

A favour without a charge.

“_I’m not doing this for him but for _**_you_**_._”

An offer of help.

“_You can stay with me, cara mia. My home can be your home. It will not be for free but no harm will come to you._”

Burgundy suits.

“_I need you._”

Arms around you, something in his eyes you have never seen before—something _genuine_.

“_You._”

You slam into Rafael with full awareness of what this will mean.

“Fear _me_.”

You plunge the poisoned blade deep into his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe Santino D’Antonio **really** hit **that** high this early on and then....just never been able to hit it since lmao. amazing. anyway whooooooooooooo babey!!!! if you read this in one sitting, please pat yourself on the back, soldier. sorry that I didn’t have time to reply to everyone about the last chapter. life has just been a big ‘ol mess as you all know, and I’ve been really busy and blocked so if this chapter reads funny....well then......though, as always, I’m super excited to hear your thoughts. :D
> 
> as always you’re all incredible, amazing, and the best so please take care of yourselves! <333


	16. i will rise up;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t disappear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you all know how I said last chapter was the longest,,, well,,, prepare for the final part of Chicago and 23k+ of reading :)
> 
> Also sorry about no replies to review. I appreciate them SO much. Love you all. ;-;

There is blood under your nails.

Water falls over your hands but it won’t wash away.

These hands capable of so much damage.

You wonder if John would be proud of you. If he would feel some semblance of satisfaction that you have become someone so dangerous. Or maybe he would hate you. He left you, didn’t he? Lied to you, tricked you—

But his eyes had seemed so sad during the wedding. Almost like his own heart was breaking and he didn’t even realise it but…

You rub your hands again.

The skin of your palms feels raw and tender from the scrubbing but you ignore it. Hot water slides down your neck and hair and you find that you…_can’t_…move.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in this shower. How long since you rushed into it, so desperate to get all the blood off you, only to practically collapse once the stream of water fell over you.

_So weak_, Kishi hums beside you, patting your cheek and you jerk away from the touch, _did you see what you did to him? That was you. You and your hate._

It wasn’t the blade that did the killing.

With your vision blurry and muscles frail the blade had sunk into Rafael’s collar more so than his neck. Too far away from anything vital. He would have lived. Even when he pulled out the blade, throwing you off him, even as blood stained his shirt as he came at you with the same knife you had used on him.

Murderous expression, an unfaltering grip on a blade stained with his blood—

Then, a flicker of pure agony. A soundless scream of pain as his expression came apart. Raw anguish had locked his knees, knocking him clean off his feet. 

Your poison had raged through him like wildfire, destroying everything that Rafael was from inside out.

The poison you had so painstakingly created over these last several months—your crowning, awful jewel made just for Tarasov—had eroded Rafael Conte in a matter of minutes.

First, his smooth, healthy skin had turned purple, and the tiny veins in his eyes ruptured as they turned blood red. But the worst had been the sounds he made. Agonised, pathetic noises of a man whose lungs were collapsing and filling up with blood.

Rafael Conte died choking on his own blood, no doubt experiencing the same agony you went through in Tokyo.

_The Drowning_

Just like Kishi had done with you. You had returned the favour.

Then, silence. Just awful silence and the rushing of water in your ears as the sink continued overflowing.

Through the haze there had only been Santino with his arms around you, practically ripping you off the ground and pulling you out of the bathroom.

With your dress sopping wet and clinging to your legs, you had stumbled after him. He had paused only long enough to drape his suit jacket around your shoulders, his phone already pressed to his ear as he spoke in clipped, harsh Italian into it.

You can’t recall a single word he had said.

The only sound in your head had been the rushing of water and the cracking of the mirror.

Over and over.

Over and over.

His arm around you, he had pressed you tightly to him but his steps had been measured, deliberate. He didn’t want to appear panicked though you felt the tension stiffening his muscles.

Santino had paused just before you entered the main hall, busying himself with undoing his shirt even more, his eyes moving subtly over the hallway walls. Checking for cameras.

He had turned towards you then, his expression inscrutable as he sank his fingers carefully into your hair, tugging the strands aside gently. After, he used the very same pocket square you gave him to dab under your eyes quickly, wiping away the mascara smears and the tears. Not one word was exchanged between you as he continued cleaning you up and making himself messier.

Ruffling his hair forcefully, he had pulled you to him when footsteps drew nearer, touching one side of your face and leaning close. Moments later an older couple had appeared around the corner, pausing at the sight of you both. Nothing more than a man touching a woman with a lover’s familiarity. You no doubt looked like you’ve either just kissed or were about to.

Always so good at playing the part.

Santino had given them a facile, cool smile and tugged you after him, his stride confident, relaxed. His fingers were flying over the phone screen though, and the slant of his eyebrows betrayed his unease, irritation.

You haven’t felt this adrift since Tokyo, clinging to him because there was no way your legs would have carried you out of the hotel where a car was already waiting for you.

It was only when you got inside, and the door slammed behind you that you had turned to him, your lips trembling.

“The b—”

“Already handled.”

And that had been it.

He spent the ride to the hotel with his phone pressed to his ear while you sat beside him, shivering and clenching his jacket closer to you.

There was still blood on your hands.

You had used the back entrance of the hotel and had encountered no one on your way to your room.

Such easy control. Such power.

You couldn’t help but wonder why he had needed you at all.

Santino had left you inside the room after leading you to the bed and checking your head. He kept talking but nothing had stuck inside your mind, every word fleeing the moment it registered.

He lingered at the door, his phone already against his ear but the look in his eyes had been reluctant.

He didn’t want to leave but you doubt he had much choice after that mess.

By the time the door clicked shut, you wanted to crawl out of your skin and disappear entirely.

The noises Rafael made, all that blood bubbling past his lips—

_You’re so good at making people choke on their own blood_, Kishi had whispered against your ear, wrapping his arms around you, _awful, vicious viper. How could anyone ever love you?_

You had barely made it to the toilet before throwing up, curled over it and dry sobbing for a number of minutes.

You were so desperate to get the dirt and the grime and the blood off you that the shower had seemed like the obvious choice.

Something beautiful torn apart and stained needed to be cleaned.

But the shower had only frozen you in place, dragging you towards the ground and locking you there.

That sensation of water sliding down your skin has unmade you, and suddenly it’s like no time has passed at all. Still in Tokyo. Still drowning. Still dead to the world.

Opposite to you, hiding in the steam, Kishi grins at you, his crooked teeth on display.

Your eyes drag back towards the hands in your lap. They lay there, two useless lumps of flesh and you try to move, try to gather strength but fail.

That tiny ember in your chest is doused and you claw for it desperately, willing it to come back.

_Please, I don’t want to be this._

Footsteps.

The bathroom door gets thrown open and a figure appears through the mist.

Still dressed in a white shirt and those mirror shoes gleaming.

“There you are, amore, I had thought—”

Santino’s voice breaks off, his lips pressing shut at the sight of you.

You’re still wearing the dress from earlier. You loved it so much. It made you feel so beautiful—like yourself—no matter how briefly only hours prior.

It’s ruined now though.

The beat of water echoes through the silence between you and you rock in place slightly, still slumped on the floor.

“I—I thought I would get the blood off my hands but…” you breathe shakily, not looking at him. “It never comes off, does it?”

Santino steps closer, ignoring the shower as he squats down before you, his eyes dark. 

“Are you hurt?”

Honesty works your tongue.

“Yes.”

His expression pinches and he raises his hand as if to pull you from under the stream but hesitates, watching your expression. 

“Where?”

You can only bring yourself to choke out a strangled, “The water.”

His eyebrows furrow into an even heavier line. He doesn’t get it. He knows nothing about it so how could he? But his head slants lower and he tries to catch your eyes.

“Tell me about it.”

You blink the water from your eyes, trembling, and watch as he rises to his feet but instead of walking away, he moves to your right. He sits down with deliberate slowness. A part of you wants to tell him to stop but he ignores the water sinking rapidly into his trousers, spreading his legs out in front of him.

He only glances at you once before looking out towards the rest of the bathroom.

The faded light washes over his drawn features as he waits and it hits you then that it’s not a demand like it usually is with him. It’s a request, an offering, and something tells you that even if you don’t tell him, he might still stay.

He might stay.

Even when you’re..._this_.

The self-obsessed man who is not worthy of loyalty or trust might just _stay_.

_He won’t stay_, Kishi insists from in front of you and you flinch, _he will leave just like your John did. They will all leave you. You will die alone._

Slumping, you stare at your hands again, ignoring the cut of water against the back of your neck.

“In Tokyo—I—” you begin and every word is agony. You haven’t talked with anyone about what happened to you in that pit—not even John. You hated the idea of him seeing you as broken, tarnished, _weak_. “He drowned me. Over and over.”

Santino’s sharp exhale is loud enough to hear even over the water.

“You do not have to—”

“And the room...the room with no air,” you choke out, ignoring his words and Kishi glares at you, his face full of hate. This is your dirty little secret after all, and he despises you for sharing it. “I—I prefer the beatings. That pain...it was easy. Electricity was...worse. But water. The _water_.”

A pained sound bubbles from the back of your throat and your chest hurts.

It _hurts_.

And there is never any relief for this pain. Like a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

You wait for Santino to get up and walk away. Wait for him to say that he always knew you were pathetic but he’s silent.

Your head feels heavy but you turn it towards him anyway to get your answer.

Be it disgust or pity or indifference.

You find none of those things.

No—Santino D’Antonio glares at some distant point on the wall with enough furious intensity to crumble concrete.

His clenched fist rests in his lap too, his knuckles popping, and his heir ring seems to glow in the light and the water.

He draws his legs to him, and there is something slow and harsh about the motion, as he rests his arms over his bent knees.

Like he’s trying to contain whatever it is that’s ravaging through him.

“So all those times you avoided water…”

His voice is hoarse as it trails off but he still won’t look at you. He sounds like he’s talking through clenched teeth and your head dips in a slight nod.

All those times when you were staying with Camorra and avoided water. Pools, the sea—anything involving a body of water. How you always avoid it even now. Now, at least, his old curiosity has an answer.

You can still recall how much it had surprised you that he noticed your avoidance in the first place. You didn’t think he could see beyond himself long enough to notice a damn thing about anyone else. 

“It just makes me feel like—”

“Like you’re still there. Still trapped. Drowning.”

That gives you a pause.

Blinking owlishly, you look towards him, considering his tone, his body language. The heaviness, the strain on his face that he tries to rope back. You can tell because it’s familiar to you—this conflict of not wanting to show weakness.

He turns towards you briefly, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted into a disconcerted line as he gazes at you. An inner conflict rages behind his eyes but you don’t have enough energy to ask. If he wants to—

“The first time I was taken I was five.”

Something settles inside the pit of your stomach. A weight that distracts you entirely and pins your attention on the Camorra heir.

Santino’s lips pull back in a smile but it is not a kind thing—it’s like all the warmth such a gesture could bring has been ripped away. “Hm, yes. I don’t recall much of that first time. But my father’s methods of ruling meant that Camorra had plenty of enemies,” he explains, his voice empty like he’s reciting a manual and not facts of his own life. “I was his only male heir. An assurance that D’Antonio name will continue governing Camorra after he’s gone. By the time my father’s Four tracked me down…”

His words are soft, hateful, and your stomach churns as you observe the way his body curves. He swallows—a forced, heavy thing—his lips parting as he stares towards the wall and speaks his next words with stark bitterness.

“I was naked, strapped to a table,” he continues, his words empty, and your heart stutters in your chest. Despite the heat of the water, you suddenly feel cold to the bone. “They, ah, had no intention of killing me, you understand? They just planned to...remove certain parts. A male heir who can’t produce heirs. A mockery to my father’s legacy. The D’Antonio name would die with me. Fine irony to that, no?”

He glances towards you then. You’re not quite sure what he finds on your face when your eyes meet but his lips twitch again.

You—

You have never seen him like this.

You’re not sure you ever want to again, either.

“It was a rival family,” he continues after a beat, but the roar of the water is so loud that you have to lean closer towards him to hear. “My father had his heirs killed in front of the man. One by one. Three sons and a daughter, too. Then he let the head and his men burn alive in their pretty little house.”

For several minutes there is just more water.

You’re shivering but it’s for a different reason this time, even if hearing this doesn’t surprise you. There is a very good reason why Giovanni is so feared, respected. Why Camorra bloomed under his years of ruthless forging.

You’ve seen his methods firsthand.

“There were other such incidents over the years,” Santino carries on and his head inclines in your direction again. Every word digs into you painfully. “Few with Gianna as well. Each as bad as the last. It is simply a price to pay for what we are. That’s what my father always told me. _Hm_, power demands a price, cara mia. Always. I know what it is to be a trapped thing. Dependent on the goodwill of others. _Never again_, I told myself. They would learn to fear _me_. I care not for how hated that will make me.”

His words rattle through you with enough intensity to wipe away all else. You never thought that Santino of all the people would ever make you speechless.

This vain, awful man.

A monster born in a family of monsters.

_They would learn to fear me._

So very similar to your own mantra.

_I want him to fear me and he will._

Every time you have to grit your teeth and face Tarasov—the man who robbed you of your family and took your freedom—you tell yourself those words. _One day, one day, one day_, he will die afraid and alone.

A _choice_ to be hated to keep yourself safe.

You don’t sympathize because you _understand_.

But not in a million years—not ever—would you have expected for Santino D’Antonio to understand what it’s like to be trapped and hurt. Held captive and damaged.

But it makes so much _sense_.

You’ve heard of territory wars, perhaps none more bloody than those waged by the Italians.

“I did not choose this life but I have made it my own,” he tells you after several minutes of silence and you blink. He exhales quietly and licks his bottom lips, pensive. “Oh, bella, you wonder why I abhor the rules so but the truth is simple. Rules have robbed me of more than you know. I’ve been trapped by my title as much as I’ve been set free by it. I do not mind it anymore—the trap that is my expected existence. I _will_ claim all the power one day and that will be my freedom. I will be the one to set the rules.” 

Steam blinds you as you squint at him.

His head is tilted backwards, resting against the tiles of the shower. His white shirt is getting wetter by the second from the spray of water raining between you. His styled hair sits in a heavy mess atop of his head from dampness and heat, and you watch him swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing. His forearms rest on his bent knees and you want to comment on how his Rolex will get soaked at this rate but can’t bring yourself to do so.

In this light, he appears—

“But you should,” you whisper slowly, your words a rasp. “You _should_ mind it.”

A smile twitches his mouth to one side as he continues staring up towards the ceiling. 

It makes you uncomfortable.

It makes you uneasy.

It makes you—

Santino D’Antonio tips his head in your direction, his eyes empty of all bravado you’re so used to seeing, and you can’t help but think that he looks—

“Ah, cara mia, I do,” he breathes, still smiling that awful, hollow smile. “I just pretend that I don’t.”

—_sad_.

You look at each other for several moments before he blinks, his expression clearing. He’s retreating and you realise that this moment—this miniature fragment of himself he has unexpectedly shared with you—he has likely never shared with anyone else before.

You can tell.

Because the lingering discomfort is so known to you.

“Tell me,” he begins wilfully, his eyes focusing on your face. “Tell me how to stop this.”

That lingering rage. The bitterness.

Your mouth twists. A flicker of anger suddenly nipping at your senses. “You can’t _fix_ me,” you spit out, your breaths strained, and your fingers twitch. “There is no fixing this.”

His reply is immediate, tart. “I have no intention of fixing you,” he says simply, almost irked. “It’s not my job to do so, carrisima. But there has to be a way to help…somehow.”

_Oh_.

Just like that, you suddenly know what this is about.

Seeing you like this must be like seeing himself.

How desperately must he have wished for someone to be there for him? He was just a boy expected to brush off every terrible thing that has happened to him because he had to be _strong_. Did he seek out some way to alleviate whatever scars those childhood incidents left?

His thirst for power and control, that selfishness and greed that’s so inherent to him. Suddenly, a lot more makes sense about Santino.

It’s like you’re seeing him through a completely different lens.

Perhaps he can understand that certain scars never heal.

Tokyo will be a part of you till the day you die.

But speaking about it—whatever little you did divulge—did wipe Kishi from your sight.

Not for the first time, his ghost has been chased away. 

Maybe that’s what you need. A distraction. A way to forget he haunts you.

A way for both of you to forget your demons. Just for a little while.

“Tell me,” you plead, your voice soft. “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

Santino’s parted lips press shut lightly as he peers at you for a beat. His head lowers for a moment, and then he shakes his head slightly. He stares at the drain where the water disappears continuously and a sound escapes him; a mix of amusement and some woeful emotion. 

“I can’t,” he replies, equally as soft. “People like us don’t get happy endings.”

Swallowing weakly, you mutter a quiet, “Try anyway.”

The Italian beside you remains quiet though. He peers at you and you can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. For once, he’s not easy to read. His damp curls stick to his forehead and you watch him rise to his feet, lacking his usual grace. He steps towards you and lowers himself before you for a second time, his gaze drifting over your features. 

He hesitates before providing you with a simple, guarded, “Imagine you and me—and everything we’ve ever wanted.”

As simple as that.

And with those hard, emerald eyes boring into you, a part of you does.

You imagine you both find a way to get out of this situation dry.

You imagine John coming back and telling you that he loves you more. That he simply _loves_ you. That he wants you as much as you want him.

You imagine Tarasov dead at your feet and your freedom in sight.

Freedom.

To be whoever you want to be.

Santino would become head of Camorra—his lifelong goal, his shield of power—and then…

Life.

Sunshine.

Happiness.

A dream that you will likely never achieve.

Even if you want to, so badly.

_People like us don’t get happy endings._

Isn’t that _right_?

“Tell me this wasn’t for nothing,” you utter, almost breathless from a dream you wish you could cling to as it slips from between your fingers. “Tell me why we’re really here. Make—_give_ me a reason to trust you.”

Santino’s mouth tightens, his previous open expression hardening under your prompting.

A different kind of conflict rages behind his reticent stare now.

No one has come for you yet, and you wonder if Santino has found a way to bury the very dead Rafael Conte without being found out. But being hopeful is not something you’re very good at—not anymore.

“Get on your feet, amore,” he says after a long moment of charged silence between you. “Change out of that dress and meet me outside. Then I will tell you.”

He stands and walks out without a backwards look, leaving you alone in the shower.

He didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know what this is really about.

A show of strength.

_Get on your feet._

You don’t want to.

You can’t.

_Imagine you and me—and everything we’ve ever wanted._

Blinking the burn of water out of your eyes, you raise your head towards the shut bathroom door.

_Imagine_.

You can’t do that slumped on the floor.

Sliding onto your knees after a few laboured breaths, you stay there for a bit. The water continues roaring in your ears and you tell yourself to stand though a voice at the back of your mind hisses for you to stay put. What does Santino know of your struggle—

_I know what it is to be a trapped thing dependant on the goodwill of others._

He does know.

At least to some degree.

It takes over thirty minutes to stand up and get the soaking dress off your body. Long minutes of trying to locate the bathrobe and wrap it around your shivering frame before turning off the shower. You had to take breaks often, gasping for breath and trying to fight back your panic.

But you did it.

You _did_.

Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you hug your arms around you and tug the door open.

You find Santino sitting in the same seat he found you in last night before he dragged you into an unexpected dance. It had been the first moment of normalcy you had tasted in months. The memory of it fills your veins with warmth and works your legs.

Santino has changed from his wet clothes as well. He’s donning a combo of clean pressed pants and a looser, faded blue sweater, a fluffy towel sitting wrapped around his shoulders. His curly, wet hair is a messy mop and you can tell he’s been running the towel through the unruly strands.

His head tilts in your direction when he hears your indistinct footsteps approach. He doesn’t smile like usual—no smirk, not even a glimmer of one. For once, he’s completely earnest.

It’s exceedingly difficult to look at him now that you know what you do about him. You don’t feel pity. You’ve heard far worse and more harrowing tales from the underworld. But it’s still unpleasant, still painful.

You try to imagine him as a little boy of five. All ruddy cheeks and wild, curly hair with bright, mischievous eyes. 

You wonder if he cried as you did—

“Does anyone know?”

Santino doesn’t respond right away but his eyes track you as you move closer with sluggish, awkward steps. Lowering yourself in the seat he sat in yesterday, you meet his stare evenly. He doesn’t make a comment on your presence.

He expected you to stand up.

He expected you to make it—to overcome yourself.

Outside, the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan are both swallowed up by a blizzard raging outside. Despite it being the middle of the night, it gives the room a sickly, greyish sort of tint that forces you to focus on him and nothing else.

“No,” he says after a lengthy pause, still staring at you. He’s thinking hard about something, you can tell—here, now, his guard is completely and utterly up. “I had two of my men remove and dispose of the body before anyone found it. No time to clean the scene up, so, _hm_. As you can already guess the news has spread. The High Table associates are looking into it already.”

Your breaths slow at that and you lift your legs, curling in the plush seat. “The Adjudicator?”

Santino shakes his head once. “No, bella, not yet. But if Conte is not found—which he won’t be—then eventually, yes.”

Your eyes lower and you lock your fingers together, trying to keep your hands steady. “Can your men be trusted?”

This time, the man does smile and the treacherous edge of it chills you. “Ah, no one can be fully trusted, cara mia, especially not men for hire. Remember that,” he warns but his voice lacks the demeaning edge that usually accompanies his words. “But no, they could not be. Which is exactly why I put a bullet in each of their heads before I returned here.”

Silence.

You stare at each other without a word and that says everything.

You did what you had to do to save him.

And he did what he had to do to try and save you both.

“They are Camorra men,” he adds eventually, his smooth voice flat, matter of fact. “No one will look for them.”

“Cameras?”

“No cameras in the bathroom. But otherwise destroyed.”

“Fingerprints? Witnesses?”

Santino’s brows furrow but a slight smile lingers across the seams of his lips. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that he’s proud.

“I did not touch anything aside from the door,” he reveals and drags the towel down his neck, leaning forward so he’s closer. The damp material rests in his lap and his elbows dig into his thighs. His feet are bare and it’s an odd thing to notice now of all the times. “_You_ don’t exist, cara mia.”

_You’re dead to the world._

You bite on your inner cheek and lower your head in a nod, picking at your nails.

“So we just need to use the panic to find Andre Boutin—”

“No.”

Your head lifts and your fidgeting fingers still in your lap as well at the look on Santino’s face.

The heir of Camorra looks out towards the blizzard, his eyebrows pinched and shoulders curved downwards. His fingers are interlocked too, and you examine his frustration silently.

“The mission failed,” he remarks bitingly, his words quiet. “If Boutin is not out of Chicago already, he soon will be. Our advantage is gone. We will be flying back to New York tomorrow.”

His rises to his feet then, throwing the dampened towel aside. A hiss of breath—of pure, simmering rage—bubbles past his parted lips and he marches ahead only to be caught by his elbow.

His attention snaps to you, his breaths ragged. His stare is a storm but he keeps it contained and your grip on him constricts.

“What did he do?” you whisper in the space between you, weary but determined. “Tell me.”

Santino grins, cold and venomous, his eyebrows quirking as he turns his body towards you, leaning close. “_Oh_? Is this how this works, bella?” he wonders but doesn’t shake your touch off. “You demand answers and expect me to bend to your will? Was I not weak enough for you earlier, _hm_?”

You regard each other wordlessly. Him brimming with agitation and you so tired you want to collapse. But this is important. It nags at you constantly—this need to understand what’s really going on.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” you tell him calmly, and it surprises you when you realise that you mean it. Whatever earlier was, weak is not the word you would use to describe it. “I just want to understand. Why are you risking everything to kill this one man? Tell me that saving you and killing Rafael on the neutral grounds was not done in vain, Santino. That this has some meaning.”

The soft material of his sweater lingers against your fingertips when you release your grip on him. But Santino doesn’t step away, he reaches out, brushing a strand of your wet hair away gingerly. This time you are the one to jerk back. Sucking in a deep breath, you see his mouth twist and he moves away, giving you space to breathe.

It isn’t that the touch was unpleasant. Or even unwanted.

It’s the fact that your heart had fluttered but it whispered John’s name.

Your John.

_But he isn’t, is he? He’s married and happy. He left. Why shouldn’t you allow yourself this? He wants you. At least _ ** _he_ ** _ does._

And that might be true. Physically, at least, you imagine moving on from John would be easy, simple even. You imagine that if you initiated, Santino would not deny you. In fact, after your little moment during the poker game earlier, you think he won’t need much convincing at all.

He had looked so torn at the edges from just a few touches and wanders of your tongue and lips.

But what would be left of you? What point would you prove by sleeping with Santino?

That you can move on as John did? Maybe. But John is out and married. He won’t care.

No, this would only be selfishness and impulse. It would only ruin everything further.

Down the road, you would only be more miserable for it.

Even if you are so very, very lonely.

Even if you miss that tingle of desire, of being desired _back_.

Maybe that’s why you allow these brief moments with Santino to continue. Because you are selfish and just want to cling on to that fire of his because it almost reminds you what it is to be normal. Adored. _Alive_.

His footsteps halt next to the large bay windows, and the storm outside still rampages in a hale of ice and wind.

His hand braces against the glass, his head bowed and you watch his rigid frame.

“He killed my mother.”

Your breath hitches at his vicious, faint declaration.

His—

Santino chuckles; a low, lilting sound but you catch the resentment and the hurt there before he smothers it.

“Have you heard of the Bloodbath of Camorra?”

Who hasn’t? Even if people like to pretend like they haven’t out of fear they might attract the attention of the family itself.

Who hasn’t heard about the humid, peaceful night in Naples over twenty years ago when Giovanni D’Antonio ordered the execution of two families that made up the Camorra ranks. Alario and Cipriano families were wiped out in a single night. No one was spared; children, the elderly, even the servants. It was the single deadliest and bloodiest event in Camorra history. It was the event that put Giovanni on the map as someone who was not only to be respected but also feared. More than feared. _Dreaded_.

No one knows to this day what exactly the reason for the bloodbath was, though there is no shortage of theories. Most seem to believe it was a consequence of a failed coup. Others say it was revenge.

You do know one thing: Giovanni slaughtered two families, several generations of people who likely had nothing to do with whatever crimes he thinks they were responsible for, and the High Table only gave him a slap on the wrist for it.

“Yes,” you choke out, your voice thin as you take few unsteady strides towards him. He’s still not looking at you. “Why?”

There is no reply, only his forcefully slow breaths. Has he ever been _this_ with anyone else? Has he ever struggled to tell them what’s on this mind?

“Do you recall what I told you earlier?” he wonders but doesn’t wait for your reply but you see how his back muscles coil under his sweater. Hear the discomfort in his voice, too. “A day after my eighth birthday someone attacked our home.”

You risk another few steps closer, your arms wrapping around your chest. You try to fight back the sinking feeling in your heart but you already know how this story ends; it’s now simply a question of how bad it will get before you arrive at the conclusion of it.

“It was just my mother and me at home, several servants, and guards,” Santino goes on and you hear the torrent of emotions he tries to contain as he continues speaking. “Father was away on Camorra business. Gianna at her private violin lessons. They, ah, attacked in broad daylight.”

Your eyes squeeze shut but you let him talk, ignoring the way your heart is thudding harder and harder in your chest.

“Their numbers were...vast,” he exhales and pauses for a long time. His fingers scrape against the glass before he pulls back abruptly. He doesn’t turn around but you see his fingers clench into fists. “They studied the house layout. Knew when it will be the most vulnerable, you understand? Our guards didn’t stand a chance. My mother tried to hide me but...”

He turns towards you at last, and in the dim light, you can’t see the green of his eyes, just shadows and darkness and rage.

“She told me to hide,” he breathes, low and strained. “_Nascondi, piccolo sole._”

Little sun.

His face screws like he can hear the words even now and you swallow thickly your own expression wavering.

Santino opens his eyes after a moment, exhaling a huff of air before he continues, “Hm, but I heard her scream. So I ran after her. I...couldn’t let them hurt her, bella. I was a foolish boy who was scared and wanted his mother. But that’s exactly what _they_ wanted. Both of us. We were drugged and taken. We were to be their bargaining tools.”

His eyes lower towards the ground and his profile reveals how he keeps clenching and unclenching his jaw. He lifts his hand, staring at the golden ring for a breath before rubbing the skin there, his fingers constricting like he’s trying to feel something.

“It was a collaboration between Alarios and Ciprianos...and Andre Boutin.”

Your expression creases and you close the remaining distance between you, coming to a stop before him. He’s still holding his hand but he looks up at you as you come to a stop before him.

“Why?”

Why risk going up against a powerhouse like Camorra? A family rooted in the old ways, and who is known for always returning any blood of theirs spilt tenfold.

“Power,” is his straightforward, sickening reply. “It is rather simple, really, they wanted to rule Camorra. To become the new ruling family by merging. And Andre Boutin always hated my father because he had the one thing that man always wanted.”

Noting your confused frown, Santino cocks his head and grins, “My mother, bella. It always comes down to love of a woman.”

Your lips part, understanding filling you. You’ve never heard of this side of the story. Never knew there was such a tangled web of connections involved in all of this.

His hollow grin fades and he gazes at you wordlessly.

You’re not quite sure what he finds on your face this time, either, but something in your chest aches for him.

Just how much more can he surprise you in a span of a single day?

You’ve been so convinced that he has never seen hardship or pain. That he’s grown up on a mountain of blood money and a silver spoon in his mouth, content in the idea that the rest of the world is less than him.

Perhaps you’re not wrong to think that though. Perhaps there is simply more to him than _just_ that though.

This is hard for him, you can see that, so you lift your chin, press your lips together in a strict line and say, “What happened after they took you?”

His eyes latch onto your own.

Because you need—want—to know.

But also because you would like to think that the man before you needs to tell it. Even if he may never admit to it. Or even realise it himself.

“Drugged, for most of it,” he reveals quietly, his voice frayed. “Some rough handling. But Boutin...he would come to see my mother.”

Your teeth clench together, a boiling feeling suddenly erupting in your stomach. “Did he...?”

He exhales loudly but shakes his head. “No, amore, he was obsessed with her but he wanted her willing. My mother hated him though. She just tried to keep me _safe_. By whatever means necessary.”

His fingers fidget and you reach on instinct, wrapping your own trembling digits around his.

His attention jumps to your face again, cautious. He doesn’t push you away but he doesn’t pull you closer, either.

This moment is simply compassion.

Simply your personal desire to have someone hold your own hand manifesting here and now.

“My mother...ah, she was the strongest person I have ever known,” he pushes on, and despite the fact that he looks ready to burst at the seams, his voice barely wavers this time. “And she was _smart_. She used his desperation against him. She got loose. Took two of his fingers off for touching both her and me. Kicked him a few times, too, telling him that she would never love someone like him. That she had a family she loved already.”

This time the quirk of his lips is more genuine, proud, and you feel your own features relax for a bit.

But then his brief smile crumbles away, and your fingers tighten around his in response. The metal of his ring presses into your skin and you know that what’s to come next will not be easy to hear.

“She tried to get me loose,” his voice creaks and your expression contorts, trying to blink away the burn you’re starting to feel behind your eyes. “He got a drop on her while she was soothing my crying...”

A tear rolls down your cheek and something fitters over his expression when he notices it.

He’s never seen tears from you but you don’t feel ashamed of them. Not this time.

“She fought back and I listened—I heard as he choked her to death. My screams did not matter to him.”

A weak wheeze escapes you and you bow your head. Your grip on his hand is so tight that you’re no longer sure if it’s entirely for his benefit.

“My father and his men found us shortly after but it no longer mattered. Boutin was long gone by then and my mother’s corpse was cold.”

“Why wasn’t he punished?” you snap, practically bristling with fury, and try to swallow the lump in your throat but it goes down like a wad of acid. “Why was it only the rival families and not him? _Why_?”

Santino lifts his free hand and swipes at your wet cheek with his thumb. This time, you don’t flinch away from his touch.

His mouth stretches but once again, it’s not even close to a smile. Those narrowed, heavy eyes focus on you but you don’t understand the look on his face.

You do feel something boiling in your chest though.

Rage.

On _his_ behalf.

He was just a little boy and he had to listen as—

You’re not sure which you feel more acutely, then—blinding sort of fury or sadness. Both.

Swiping at your face, you turn your face away from him. The wet rattle of your laboured breaths fills the silence between you.

It’s like being transported back to that tiny, cramped Moscow flat years ago. The piercing scrape of metal spoon echoing against the pot of soup as Tarasov detailed how he killed your parents, how you are now his property. By choice, of course.

That or death.

“Boutin is the head of the Black Dragon which granted him the Table’s favour,” Santino voices and your attention swings back towards him. He runs his fingers through his curls roughly, his long digits tangling in the silky strands and he looks and sounds so hateful at that moment. Unmade, somehow. “He was smart, too, bella. There was nothing to pin him to the accident.”

“But you were a witness—”

“I was a little boy who was drugged for days,” he cuts you off, his words resentful, bitter. “It was my word against the man who has served the Table for _years_. Ah, cara mia, but we both know that the face of your tormentor never quite fades from memory, does it not?”

No—no, it doesn’t. 

Your lashes still feel thick with tears but you force your vocal cords to work, “Then why leave you alive?”

The heir grits his teeth and you peer at him.

It’s still hard to think that he’s baring these family secrets—_his_ secrets—to you right now. His pain is real and raw and it’s surreal to see him like this.

Where is the arrogant prince of a criminal empire you’re so used to seeing?

This, now, makes you feel like you never knew him at all.

You’ve never caught so much as a whisper of this—no indication at all—but you do understand the reason for it.

It’s so that no one ever sees him like _this_.

Vulnerable.

And vulnerability is not permitted for someone like him. 

Giovanni would never allow it.

Santino _himself_ would never allow it.

He’s too proud.

“Because he panicked. Because my father was on the way. Because he’s a fucking coward.”

You agree.

And finally understand why he wanted this man to suffer. Why he planned so meticulously for this for years.

Only for your instability to ruin those plans.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, devastated. “I’m so sorry.”

He understands what you mean without clarification.

He glances towards the blizzard again, and his hands slip into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“Get some rest, bella. I will handle the rest.”

His accented words lack accusation, even his previous rage, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost miss that narcissistic man you’ve known for years.

But not really. Because despite how agonising this is, this is also the most real you’ve ever seen him.

Like an open nerve bared before you.

“I have waited for years, having to act like that man did not murder my mother right in front of me,” he notes, thoughtful, his words clipped, his expression removed, and he takes several steps past you. Your head rotates after him and he pauses. “I can wait a bit longer.”

No.

_No_.

All those years…

Whole _decades_ of waiting and biding his time. You know what it is to have to live with that.

The murderer of his mother will not get away with this.

Not like Tarasov gets away with the murder of your parents _every single fucking day_.

“I will help you.”

He stiffens.

Ignoring it, you go on, “Be it tomorrow, a week from now, or five years,” you tell him, hoarse and choked, pathetically weak in your flimsy bathrobe but more determined than you’ve been in months. “He _will_ die, Santino. I promise you that.”

He straightens, a leisurely rotation of his limbs and muscles before he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

That fire rages despite his calm, composed expression.

His lips curl upwards and you share a long, frenzied look.

You have no idea what passes between you but something _does_.

“Oh, amore,” he intones icily. “Of course he _will_.”

_ **. . .** _

You don’t sleep that night.

There is only a few, febrile nightmares that chase you back to wakefulness before you can fully rest.

Curled up in the extravagant covers, you try to listen for any signs that Santino is still awake in the other room but hear nothing.

The storm keeps lashing against your windows throughout the night, filling the eerily soundless space with howls of wind.

Better than the silence of your mind.

Better than Santino’s story tearing and shredding through your mind on repeat.

You nod off again sometime around dawn, your sleep as restless as before but it’s still better than nothing.

This time you dream of being stuck in the pit with Santino beside you, an inky profile of a figure sinking its fingers into your hair—

You snap awake covered in a thin layer of sweat, your throat dry and head pounding.

Getting out of bed takes another hour.

Fatigue lingers in your limbs and you feel listless and dazed, still haunted by events of last night.

The rush of water, the blade in your hand, Rafael Conte choking, gasping for breath as your poison destroys him—

There is no regret in your heart. Not after what he almost did to you, not after you found out what kind of man he served.

You make it to breakfast late, and find Santino absent, only Ares there for company.

She scrolls through her phone as she indulges in a cup of Earl Grey and you greet her with a brief, forced upturn of your lips. Her bright blue eyes take you in critically but she mercifully doesn’t comment on your terrible state.

You’ve just barely managed to brush your hair and teeth, pulling on a random pair of dark jeans and a thick cream sweater.

The hotel is comfortably warm but you still feel cold despite that.

“Santino?”

Ares sneaks a look at you and her response is simple, _Handling the fallout. There is quite the uproar and he has to be seen._

To avoid suspicion.

To shield you.

To shield you both.

As much as you wish you could help, there is little you can do now. This is not your crowd. These people are at the very top of the power pyramid and you have no power of your own.

Guilt at your own failure festers in your chest despite the fact that you know that you made up for it by taking Rafael’s life.

Santino knows it, too.

A part of you wonders if this is why he’s trying so hard to bury this.

Despite the fact that you would likely lose your head, and he would be severely punished if anyone found out.

That does not, however, explain why he doesn’t simply throw you to the wolves and save himself. You’ve seen him do it plenty of times. Someone fails and they become expendable, useless. Failure once is failure always.

Maybe he _does_ have some sort of moral fibre in him after all.

The breakfast proceeds mostly in silence. There is little energy in you for anything aside from chewing and swallowing of your food. Still, at least there is hunger in you, and you’re grateful for that if nothing else.

Ares doesn’t bother you, almost like she can sense the discomfort clinging to you. But she, too, appears preoccupied, her thoughts further away than usual.

Frankly, you can’t wait to go back to New York.

Maybe there is some other job Santino needs doing in the meantime. This job was a failure but you still need that money he offered.

Finishing your meal, you leave with a slight nod in Ares’ direction but don’t have the energy for anything more than that.

Time crawls by as you sit in your chair, staring out towards the now peaceful Lake Michigan. A deep layer of fluffy white snow has covered Chicago overnight, and with the sun occasionally peaking past the clouds the landscape seems to glow.

Somewhere between hour two and three, you end up on the floor, your eyes examining the ceiling with silent intensity.

This reminds you of the night John left. Back then, the ceiling of the Continental had been your only companion, too.

_John, John, John._

One part of you hopes that he’s the happiest he’s ever been. While another part of you...

The door to your room opens and you recognise the owner of that silky, accented baritone anywhere.

Santino is speaking in French again but it muddles in your mind into a string of noise.

The conversation ends and his footsteps draw closer with increased speed.

“Cara mia?” he calls out and appears above you, his expression tight. “What happened?”

You sigh gently, blinking, “Nothing,” you mumble and blink again. There’s still that insistent pressure against your temple and everything is growing fuzzier. “Just...admiring the ceiling. It’s very good at giving one...perspective.”

The man above you regards you through narrowed eyes, deadly silent, which is unusual. Santino likes to run his mouth. He’s different from last night, too. His cast is back—every inch of him as immaculate and as groomed as always and it almost...disappoints you.

The man you saw last night—the one weighted down by personal pain and cracked around the edges was one you could relate to, maybe even like.

This man—the heir—is just a cold, distant remnant of him. An arrogant prick you have little patience for.

He considers you _friends_ but you see how he watches you.

But perhaps it’s for the better.

That side of him from last night is far, far more dangerous. That side of him you could see yourself growing to care for, see yourself being able to share in moments of loneliness with.

“Dance with me.”

It’s a demand and he doesn’t even bother to try and mask it as anything other than that.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re...an infuriating, domineering _asshole_?”

One of Santino’s eyebrows arches and he shrugs off his suit jacket, throwing it on the seat not too far from you. “Yes, cara mia, _you_ have,” he points out mildly and extends his hand, loosening his patterned tie. “Dance with me.”

You don’t move.

He doesn’t drop his arm.

Exhaling loudly, you raise your head, sitting up with a muted glare. His expression is as aloof, as effortlessly arrogant as always, and you slap your hand into his, gripping firmly only for a slight smirk to flicker over his features when he hauls you to your feet.

He wastes no time, moving closer to you as his arm slips around you, his attention drilling into you.

Turning your head pointedly away from him, you sway in silence.

This close, you can see the subtle signs of exhaustion on him. The ashiness of his skin and the darker smudges under his eyes. It’s an effort to ignore the stab of guilt you feel at those observations.

“Don’t disappear.”

Blinking slowly, your head inclines in his direction. “I’m right here.”

His arm tightens around your waist and you ignore his heated touch.

“No, amore, you are slipping away again,” he remarks, his voice hushed and leans his face closer towards yours. “Stay here, in this moment, with me, yes?”

Your throat closes up, a shiver racing down your spine at his words, at the gleam in his green eyes.

You feel, then, terribly seen. Exposed.

You’re ashamed of what he might be seeing right now.

There’s more to you than _this_.

“I’m—“

His expression doesn’t waver. His grip on you like a chain around your being. But for once, it’s not a suffocating thing, not a burden. It’s an anchor.

His story rings in your ears like a broken record.

“Does anyone suspect?”

He knows what you’re asking and mercifully lets you divert the conversation. “Not yet, which perhaps makes the whole fiasco worse,” he points out but doesn’t seem concerned. “We will wait till afternoon to leave. Many have departed already.”

Avoiding the tension in the air, you allow your eyes to drag over his features. There is one thing that has been plaguing you since you heard his story last night.

“Why didn’t Giovanni go after Boutin? Why are you not telling him now?”

Santino’s eyes snap to you, searching.

This is both curiosity and an attempt to stay...present.

He seems to recognise it as such and after an uneasy moment, his lips part, “Because I spent years hounding but constantly came up empty, bella,” he divulges stiffly, his hold on your hand constricting. “Because it kept bringing my father shame in the eyes of the Table, and he has forbidden me from going down this path again. He warned me that if anything is to ever happen to Boutin, and he learns that I had anything to do with it, he would strip me of my title. _Rules, _yes?”

That’s why he needed you.

Why he didn’t want this attached to his name.

If Giovanni is to ever find out that he did anything to Boutin, he would lose the very thing he’s always desired above everything else.

The title as the next head of Camorra.

But more importantly, this festering hatred for rules finally has an explanation.

_Rules have robbed me of more than you know._

His words from last night suddenly make a lot more sense. After the last 48 hours you shared, an awful lot more makes sense about him in general.

“Well,” you begin, meeting his gaze. “I meant what I said last night. I will help you.”

Santino hums and his face softens a touch. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards and you’re not sure what he finds so funny. “Such promise, no?” he wonders idly. “I might hold you to it, and that is not a position most people enjoy being in.”

You know that well.

Shuffling your feet clumsily, you let him turn your interlocked bodies, and can’t help but silently wonder why this is helping.

Why _he_ is helping.

“I won’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”

Something shifts through his eyes; a weight, an emotion you have never seen before but it’s gone with a blink.

His feet halt but he still holds you to him.

“Come away with me.”

“Where?”

His exhale is barely audible. “Anywhere, cara mia, anywhere you want,” he says urgently and then a sly light enters his eyes as something seemingly comes to mind. “You still owe me a trip to Paris.”

_This_ again.

Trying not to roll your eyes, you answer with a dry, “I’ve been to Paris before, Santino.”

His hot palm folds around yours more snugly, his touch lingering. “Not _my_ Paris,” he argues but it’s the most carefree you’ve seen him since Rome. Ever since your reunion in New York, he appears calmly furious every time you see him but not right now. Not in this light, not with this minimal distance between you. “You haven’t experienced the food and the art and the music. There is more to life than _this_, and it’s out there, waiting for you. I could show it to you,” he adds the last part in the faintest of murmurs, peering at you intently.

No pride, no demands, or ego.

There’s such lightness to his voice, to his eyes, that a part of you can almost imagine it, taste it, like you’re in Paris with him right now.

He almost looks _hopeful_; an emotion you’ve never associated with him before.

But—

_John_.

His dark eyes and his raspy voice haunt you.

Accuse you of betrayal.

“I can’t.”

The light gutters out.

He studies you for a grim moment, unblinking.

“I can’t,” you repeat again, and your words tumble out in a rushed, dejected mess. “Tarasov will—“

“Ah, bella, the Russian can be paid off. We both know that,” Santino interrupts, his voice slipping towards coldness. “What is this really about, hm?”

You gape at him for several moments, stumped.

“Is my company truly so revolting to you that you rather slip back into isolation?” he demands, attempting to control his slipping anger. But this anger is different from the one you witnessed last night. “Lock yourself away. Let that beautiful fire be doused again by memories of _him_. Snap _out_ of it. He’s _not_ coming back. You need to let him go before he destroys you.”

“Shut up.”

It’s a feeble mumble of words and you pull back. He lets you go but his words are like a torrent.

He’s been holding back for years.

He likely wanted to spill these words to you the moment he realised the amount of damage the wedding did.

He’s been trying to leash this for your sake but no longer.

“When will you realise that if he truly loved you, he never would have left you,” he snaps, seething, his vocal cords distorting with sharpness. The lines on his face deepen with his stubborn scowl as he continues, stalking closer. “When will you realise that you deserve so much _better_ than this misery, hm? When will you just let him _go_ and be _happy_? When will you realise that his care was nothing but a brief fancy to soothe loneliness? You were simply _there_. An easy choice. The moment another came along he left you behind like an unwanted pet. When he came to me for help, he didn’t even bother asking after you. He didn’t _care_, amore. He doesn’t love you and he never _will_.”

Silence.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

There is just a vague sound of blood rushing in your ears and the sight of the man before you blurs.

A soft wisp of air slips past your trembling lips and you see Santino falter. His explosive temper drains away in a blink. His jaw sets as he, too, seems to conclude that he has gone too far.

You know he’s right.

You _know_ that.

Every action John has committed before leaving only confirms it.

He did feel something—he’s not the type of man to fake something like that, he’s so kind and gentle deep down—but you’re not Helen.

You’re not a normal, happy life, either.

You’re _none_ of those things.

Because your life has become an act of brutal transformation. Soft skin to hard skin; gentle voice to cruel voice; good heart to black heart. That’s what it is to be alive, to survive—an act of cannibalising oneself till there’s only bits and pieces left behind that appease others. Tarasov, Kishi, this life of blood and death. They have all ate alive a girl that could have been and spat something awful and terrible back out instead.

Your feet carry you past him wordlessly.

Santino turns after you, his fingers brushing over your elbow, “Amore, I—”

You jerk your arm away like his touch physically hurts you, disgusts you. Your mouth contorts in a snarl and your attention snaps towards him, a well of hostility and hurt exploding outwards.

“Yes, I _do_ find you revolting,” you bite out loudly, every word as cruel and as abrasive as you can possibly make it. “Because you are nothing more than a selfish, spoiled, murderous little man who feels entitled to the world. You hide behind your pathetic bravado but I see _right through you_.”

Gasping for breath, you ignore his frozen expression, and practically hiss your next words at him, “Yeah, Santino D’Antonio is nothing more than a scared, miserable boy overshadowed by everyone in his life but so _desperate_ to be heard, feared, _respected_. It’s pathetic, really, how hard you try because you will _never_ succeed. No one will ever care or love a lying, cheating, backstabbing bastard like _you_.”

Your words hang between you, stripping the room of air.

The space crackles with aggression as you stare at each other but neither of you speaks.

His face is blank, his stare glassy.

You’ve thought that maybe he—

You’re such a goddamn _idiot_.

Pivoting on your heels, you march away, not caring if he will order your death for such disrespect. You’ve seen him order hits for less.

But there is just emptiness.

A gnawing pain in that hole John and Tokyo have punched right through you.

A hole that a weak, pathetic little ember in your chest has whispered _could_ be soothed by the man you leave behind you with a slam of the door.

You stagger down the hotel hallway as tears blind you and Kishi falls in step beside you, grinning brightly.

_You’re dead to the world._

Your tears only come harder.

_ **. . .** _

The silence inside the car is chilly.

Neither of you speaks though you’re sitting beside each other, no more than an arms-length away.

Ares found you hours later at the hotel bar, nursing a lemonade in your hands and lost in thought.

She had tried to make a joke about it only for it to fall short when you remained unresponsive. Her own expression fell after that, and in that action, you knew Santino has told her what has transpired between you.

You had followed her back to the lobby silently. Everything was already packed and ready to go, she had informed you. The nightmare that’s been this trip has finally come to an end.

She had to go ahead and secure the jet, and with Santino’s dwindled guard numbers, Piero was the only one to greet you by the large, black SUV.

The stoic, muscular man had nodded at you once, a touch stiff, before pulling the car door open for you.

Santino, much to your displeasure, was already seated inside.

Dressed in a fresh khaki suit and white shirt and with his eyes guarded by tinted sunglasses, he hadn’t even turned in your direction.

And so the painfully awkward drive to the airport began.

Even now, fifteen minutes in, the only tell for his turbulent thoughts is the way he keeps winding the golden ring around his finger repeatedly.

There is a buried pang deep in your chest which warns you that you have taken your comments too far.

It’s not that you don’t think what you said doesn’t apply to him to a degree—both past and present—but...

But you’ve seen so much _more_ of him during these last few weeks. Days.

A completely different side.

Your own pain—a heinous, thick, rotting thing—had been too desperate to burst out and cause similar torment.

You’ve been selfishly unwilling to be alone in your suffering.

He was _right_. Everything he said. But it hadn’t hurt any less to hear the truth you’ve already known since John walked out of that hotel room, leaving you alone.

There is a lump in your throat that refuses to leave as you survey the snowy Chicago streets while the car speeds down the streets.

“The money will be transferred to your account when we land in New York.”

The declaration rips through the otherwise quiet car with a loudness of a thunder crack.

Licking your lips, you turn your head in his direction, a frown pinching your features, “I don’t need your charity,” you inform him frankly. “The job fell through.”

Santino’s own head slants in your direction lazily, the gesture effortlessly disdainful and you almost bristle. He’s playing up the worst of his character traits on _purpose_.

“Charity, cara?” he echoes, unimpressed. “_Hardly_. You will be getting 500k for your work here and 1mil will be earned back whenever you work for me next.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have a preference for you breathing,” he says bluntly before glancing in your direction. Behind his sunglasses, you catch only a glimpse of those sharp eyes before he turns away again. For a brief second, the vision of him now and the man who sat beside you in the shower blur. “Which you will _not_ be if you don’t pay the Russian, no? Consider it a future investment into our wonderful, _revolting_ partnership.”

The golden ring keeps twisting around his finger.

Even _now_ he would still—

You’re so focused on the heir next you that you don’t see it coming.

The impact practically throws you off your seat and your hands snap outwards on instinct.

The SUV goes sliding down the road before another car slams into it from a different direction. Your body slides towards Santino and you throw yourself at him, shielding his body as glass rains down over you both.

Tires screech against the icy asphalt while the car spins, and your face buries against Santino’s hair for a brief moment as the car drags itself into a standstill.

“Stay down.”

You don’t hesitate, pulling a pistol from under your sweater and heave yourself towards the front of the car where Piero is already pulling out his own gun. Blood trails down his split brow but he appears otherwise fine.

_Count. How many?_

Following John’s stern advice inside your head, your eyes sweep over the intersection. The highway is ahead, no more than half a mile out, and you flip the safety off your pistol, keeping low as you reach for Piero’s shoulder.

“Get do—”

The bullet hits the dark-haired man right in the temple, splattering his blood all over your face.

Your grip on him loosens and you fall back towards Santino who is staring at you with grim sort of understanding.

His sunglasses are gone and his green eyes meet your own.

Yes, you suppose he would find and ambush a quite routine turn of events.

You’ve been in this situation too many times to count as well.

Even if there is a distinct, prickling discomfort at the knowledge that you are now effectively alone facing against an unknown number of assailants.

Tangling your fingers in his expensive suit, you pull him closer and he goes rigid in the seat, your eyes still locked.

_Stay on me._

Reaching past him, you wipe at your face, and lock your fingers around the door handle. Another five shots hit the SUV but you ignore it, pushing the door open.

_Five shots, three-second delay, at least two shooters. Not aiming to kill, just to draw you out._

John’s voice recites the observations in your ear, and you push Santino through the door, your gun raised. His phone is in his hand already but it doesn’t matter what help he calls for.

Ares is at least another twenty minutes away. Your numbers are slim as they are already.

It’s up to you two to get out of this alive.

Your hands keep trembling. Far, far too much for a balanced aim and you grip the gun tighter between your clammy fingers, willing the stability to return.

_Don’t let it consume you._

Clinging onto Winston’s steadying voice, you slide out after Santino, another series of shots hitting the car after you. The pinging of the metal pierces your ears painfully but you ignore it.

One two, three and then four.

One two, three and then—

Locking your muscles, you jump upwards and fire two shots in the direction of your attackers.

One of the figures falls to the ground from the impact and you throw yourself down as an explosion of lead follows in response.

Santino’s arm wraps around you as you both hunch into a compact ball of limbs on the floor. At any moment a stray bullet could hit you, but the car is your only cover. You’re helplessly exposed and out in the open.

“How many?” his laboured inquiry tickles your ear but you don’t answer him.

You’re not sure you can stomach the ugly truth yourself.

Just a glimpse and you saw at least three dozen darkly dressed figures, all armed and ready to—

_Not kill you_, John reassures from beside you and you look up at the Italian.

“Too many,” is your tepid conclusion, and you press him closer as more bullets hit. A too familiar smell of gasoline registers in your nose moments later and you bite back a frustrated yell. What’s next?

Cursing under your breath instead, you cut your attention back to him. “I can cause a distraction. Draw their attention—”

“Have you lost your mind—”

“Your life matters more than mine!”

His mouth snaps shut but the _look_ on his face—

Bullets hit the car once again, cutting off any potential reply, and the gunfire draws closer in a regular hit of metal against metal.

Either this car will blow or they will corner you.

So you make the choice for him.

Raising your arm, you fire blindly—a deterrent—and lift your head briefly over the back bonnet to check—

You pull the trigger immediately and again, and again—

Two bodies drop against the car, now dead, and you shove Santino roughly to the side.

_Shit_.

They used the covering fire to mask their approach.

And their uniforms.

They’re the Black Dragon’s men which means—

The chamber clicks empty and you hurl the gun at the face closest to you.

Two blades greet the next two men and you throw yourself at them.

“Run!”

You don’t risk turning around to see if he obeys your order.

Flipping the polished metal between your fingers, you sink it into a struggling man, ignoring his flailing.

This isn’t about _winning_.

You’re far too exhausted and outnumbered for any illusions of that.

This is about buying Santino time to get away.

If Ares hurries—

You throw another blade, smashing your leg into another man’s knee with enough vicious intent that you hear bones crack.

Another dies with a snap of his neck.

Another with a blade right in the jugular.

Next one with a blade in his face.

Skin, muscle and tendons all rip and it’s still not _enough_.

Black, black, black everywhere you look.

This has dissolved into a fistfight. You’re not sure how many you have managed to take down using speed and agility but your strength is disintegrating by the second. Any and all gunfire has long since ceased as if to give you a fighting chance. Like whoever is behind this is testing how long you will last. 

Just like—

The butt of a semi-automatic flies towards your face and—

**.**

You come back to life with a violent jolt of your entire body and a gasp of pain. 

You’re somewhere poorly lit and damp. Cold.

Something about those few observations causes your entire being to go into high alert.

Scrambling, you shake your head to clear the fuzziness from your vision as well as the tang of blood that lingers on your tongue.

“_Shh_, bella. Don’t move.”

Your eyes fly open, your head spinning as you squint at the too-familiar figure in front of you.

“What—” your voice splinters and you force down the raspiness away. “I told you to _run_.”

To know that you’ve been taken is bad enough but to know that you failed, again, simply because—

“They would have killed you.”

That’s the only explanation Santino D’Antonio offers you before he extends his hand in your direction.

His suit jacket is missing, leaving him in nothing but a white shirt that’s smeared with dirt and dried blood. This is easily the most dishevelled you’ve ever seen him. He hates getting his own hands dirty.

He looks relatively unharmed though the way his dark curls clumps with blood on the left side of his head tell you exactly how he ended up here with you.

“Where are we?” you force out as he helps you to sit up, his fingers still holding your own. “How…how many?”

Your speech slurs and you groan, shaking your head again, trying to bottle and throw away the pain. Your hands are still shaking and Santino’s hold constricts briefly. It’s almost comforting. Almost.

Right now, you don’t have the time to be upset or angry with him.

Right now, you’re perfectly aware that the only chance you have to get out of this alive is to work together.

“I’m not too sure. I woke up only minutes ago,” he reveals, his voice hushed and spotting your bewildered frown, he subtly indicates towards the ceiling where you notice a blinking red light. Cameras. “We were alone when I came around.”

It’s then, with your vision finally settling, that you are able to fully take in the space around you.

The blood in your veins promptly turns to ice.

No.

_No, no, no._

From the bottom of your stomach, you feel a swell of raw, numbing sort of panic spread, spiking your pulse.

“Cara mia?” Santino calls out, no doubt noting the way your face has slackened with terror. His fingers sink into your shoulder gently but even the heat of his palm does nothing to quell the uncrackable ice suddenly encasing you.

You’re underground.

A large, dark space.

A single, swinging lightbulb illuminates the dirt you sit on and a large metal door—

Just like Tokyo.

Just like that endless pit of blood and torment and pain.

You can’t _breathe_.

“No—please, no,” you gasp and yank yourself from Santino’s grip, scrambling to stand up. “No, no, no.”

The surprise that you’re not bound barely sinks in as you stumble towards the metal door frantically.

Santino’s confused voice sounds behind you but you don’t understand a single word he says.

No—

Please, please, _no_.

The quake in your hands is so bad that it takes you three tries to grasp onto the handle, your nails scratching against the rusted metal. The noise is jarring in its familiarity but you try to ignore it.

Despite your best efforts to battle down the spreading panic, your barely calm breaths slip into something more frantic, terrified.

You try to wrench the door open but it won’t budge—

“The door is locked, cara, I tried—”

Your fist slams against he metal cutting him off, and you gasp for breath before crashing all your strength against it again.

And again.

_Again, again, again_—

“Stop!” Santino shouts over the deafening bangs, trying to haul you away from the door by the waist. “Stop, you’re hurting yourself!”

Ignoring your bloodied knuckles, you try to kick your way out of his grip, disregarding his grunts of pain. He holds you to him tightly despite the way you scratch at his arms, and twist in his hold. “_Don’t touch me!_”

Your voice is not your own, your body is not your own, either.

The darkness presses in on all sides and you ignore Kishi’s laughter ringing from the inky shadows surrounding you.

“Let me out!” you scream from the top of your lungs and a sob breaks free from your chest; a wet, broken toll of pure terror. “_Let me out, let me—_”

“Breathe, cara, _breathe_—”

Santino’s voice reverberates like he’s underwater, and you let out a wail of pure pain.

Pressure builds against the back of your head and—

“Let me out, let—me—please—_let me out!_”

Your begging falls to deaf ears, and your shouts of fright echo back at you like a nauseating lullaby.

It’s like being squeezed through a tube, nothing but blackness filling your sight.

You can’t _breathe_—

then

_nothing_.

**.**

Humming.

Peaceful, soothing humming laps at your senses, filling the holes and the crevices.

This time, you don’t come around forcefully but with a melody in your ears and delicate fingers against your hair.

A thumb strokes lightly against your temple to the beat of the little song.

Your eyes ache when you blink them open, still stinging from tears. Softness cushions your head, and it takes a little while to grasp the fact that your head is nested in Santino’s lap as he holds you to him. 

A whimper slips free and the humming cuts off, his touch retreating at once as he peers down at you.

Another deep line has formed between his crinkled brows. Even worse is his usually vivid gaze that now appears black.

“Count with me,” he urges in Italian, his words insistent but quiet, before you so much as open your mouth. He seems to be making a conscious effort to not touch you more than necessary. “_Uno, due, tre._”

He repeats it. Next time he goes up to five. Then back down.

Each time with more urgency.

Your heart beats like a resoundingly drum inside your chest but you force yourself to obey, force yourself to mouth with his counting.

He holds your stare as you do.

Panic retreats gradually one mumbled number at the time.

You’re shivering, unmoving, curled up against him. Leeching off his warmth.

It’s deafeningly quiet here. You can’t bear to look around you, less you be reminded of where you are, so you focus only on him.

You feel so weak. Pathetic.

You recall Tarasov’s disgust at your weakened state in his office but there is no disgust now.

A tentative touch grazes against your hand and you jump, curling tighter into yourself as you drag your hand back.

Santino grimaces at your rough movement and it’s then that you catch the sight of his hands.

Red, inflamed lines mar his tanned skin. Some deep enough to draw blood.

A memory of you trying to tear out of his grip—

“Your hands...” you whisper, horrified, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The man huffs a breath.

“Stop apologising,” he deadpans. “It’s rather irritating, you know.”

His response is so frank and unexpected you only blink. Sniffling slightly, you let a faint snort escape you, your eyes fluttering shut with a fragile smile.

“There we go.”

He sounds pleased.

Your eyes open and in this shadowed space, his cast has once again cracked. “Why are you being so...”

“So?”

“Not you,” you breathe weakly.

Santino chuckles. It’s a pleasant, silky sound that doesn’t seem to belong in this horrid place. His head tilts back, hitting the wall with a muted thud. The cords of his neck move with his amusement and his palm settles briefly against your hair. It’s almost playful. Fond. “_Ah_, and has it ever, perhaps, crossed your mind that you don’t _really_ know me, bella, hm?”

He glances down at you, awaiting your answer but you don’t offer him one for a long time.

You _thought_ you knew him.

You do.

It has simply become abundantly clear that not _all_ parts of him like you initially assumed.

For the second time in your life, you’re glad that you know him.

That he is here with you.

That you’re not alone.

Truly and wholly.

You never thought you’d live to see the day.

“I know you’re not a good man,” you murmur faintly. “I know that I shouldn’t trust you.”

Only a twitch of his lips. Indulgent. Dangerous.

“No, I am not,” he admits easily, unabashed. “And no you shouldn’t.”

A glint of something that’s gone too quickly for you to decipher in the darkness. “Even if I would like you to.”

You don’t feel like lying to him that you do trust him, so you say nothing.

The silhouette of him shifts—careful not to jostle you—and you know that he wants to say something but there’s some internal battle going on inside him.

“Cara mia, I—”

You’re not sure how you know what he’s trying to express but you do.

Maybe because you’re thinking the exact same thing.

Your fingers lace around his cautiously, avoiding the scratches cutting into his skin.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Before he can respond, there is a groan of metal behind you.

Your fingers clamp around his, your momentarily ease fracturing.

“Santino—”

He squeezes your fingers once.

“We’ll get out of this.”

You hate the promise, the resolute belief, in his accented voice.

Unlike him, you feel drained of hope.

“Get them up.”

Footsteps stomp against the ground as figures pour inside the darkened room. The order was given with leisurely authority, and the owner of the voice is familiar with weaving command like his native tongue.

Santino doesn’t wait till someone manhandles either of you though. He stands long before that and you’re surprised that his fingertips linger on you, helping you as well.

He straightens as figures dressed in black gather around you, cutting off any escape routes.

You force your shoulders to rearrange, ramrod straight, and tilt your chin up just like the Italian.

Through the group of Dragon’s men cuts a man.

He’s shorter than you both, well in his sixties, and sporting grey slicked-back hair. He wears an ordinary black suit and you can tell from one look that it’s likely half the price tag of Santino’s.

The man’s face is unremarkable, too. A slightly crooked nose, deep-set eyes that look darker due to the dim light of the room, and deep wrinkles lining his face. Two fingers are missing on his left hand just like Santino told you and your eyes narrow on him.

Across Andre Boutin’s thin lips lingers an impersonal smile.

It sets your teeth on edge.

He halts in front of you, his head lifting a touch to look up at the heir and he hums, inspecting him with a shrewd, cold look.

That gesture almost reminds you of Winston except it feels insulting to compare the manager to this scum of a man.

You try to envision him younger, try to imagine what he would have looked like the night he killed the Lady of Camorra right in front of her child.

That rage you felt last night when Santino told you his story licks at your senses again, chasing the exhaustion and the fear away. At least for the moment.

You almost entertains he idea of leaping at him right now but you doubt you’ll make it before the men surrounding you kill you.

“Here we are again,” Boutin speaks thoughtfully, his voice more nasally than you would have expected. “_Santino D’Antonio_...you have grown, boy.”

The Italian beside you is rigid.

God, you can’t even begin to imagine what he must be feeling right now, faced with the murder of his mother after all these years.

“And you have taken after your mother,” Boutin continues, seemingly unconcerned with the thick, suffocating enmity filling the air. “Those hateful eyes and foul temper...they remind me of Emilia.”

“Don’t you _dare_ speak her name,” is a hiss of such unbridled fury that the man beside you practically shakes with it. “Do you have _any_ idea what my family will do to you now? I will _tear_ your little company to _pieces_.”

_This_ Santino you _do_ know.

Serrated, vicious edges and pure venom.

Boutin looks unmoved by the threat, however, just mildly aggravated.

“Arrogant just like your father,” he concludes dispassionately and you hear Santino exhale at that. “Do you think I did not plan ahead, boy? No security footage, no witnesses. I made sure _no one_ would know where you are or who took you. Do you believe your title makes you invulnerable? I am the head of the Black Dragon. I’ve been serving the High Table before you were even _born_.” 

Shit.

_Shit_.

This is—

This is Tokyo all over again.

No one knows where you are. There will be no help here.

Even _if_ Ares knows, even _if_ she contacts Camorra—which you know Santino would have warned her not to do unless there’s no other option—it’s unclear how long it may take for them to track you.

Step could potentially do it but even then...

“I always knew that you would not let it rest,” the man carries on, folding his arms behind his back and something changes in his regard then. Hardens. Prickles your senses. Something about this man reminds you of— “Letting you live was the biggest oversight on my part. But then you had to go ahead and come here, didn’t you? So, if you would like to avoid being sent back to Giovanni in little pieces, I will ask you only this: where is my son?”

Ignoring the quake in your legs, you risk a peek towards the heir. His features are bathed in half-light and half-shadow but his expression is cold, sneering.

“Am I suppose to know who that is?”

Boutin’s thin lips flatten into something more cutting; a subtle promise of violence that you know how to recognise even if Santino may not.

Kishi and Tarasov have taught you well.

So cracking your lips, you speak for the first time before this can escalate, “You’re Rafael’s father.”

It’s in the eyes.

Always in the eyes. 

Beside you, Santino goes very still.

He understands what this means.

Just like that, Boutin’s attention slides towards you, his eyes narrowing in consideration. He takes a step towards you and the Italian next to you slips closer, his arm brushing against yours. The Dragon’s men move into a tighter circle around you.

The silent warning is clear. 

“That’s right,” Boutin confirms, expressionless. “It seems I have almost forgotten all about our guest of honour. The _Vipress_.”

Confusion and disbelief fill you.

You hadn’t expected that.

“You know who I am?”

Yes, your name has spread far and wide, especially after the Hunt. But you were under the belief that Boutin never involved himself in the dramas of your world, staying completely secluded unless forced otherwise by the High Table. His fear of Camorra, of retaliation, has driven him to a half-life.

The older man almost looks amused by your reaction.

“I reassure you,” he begins coolly, another aloof smile ghosting over his worn features, and there is something in his intonation and scrutiny that makes your skin crawl. “I know a great many things about _you_. You’ve been a subject of interest to us for some time now. How do you like it here? I had hoped you would find it..._familiar_.”

Your composed expression strains.

Familiar?

“We have no idea what happened with your bastard son.”

Santino’s words cleave through the air and Boutin’s keen appraisal comes to an end with them. His eyes drag towards the Camorra heir.

“Do you take me for a fool, boy?” the man questions calmly but there is a sharpness to his words that makes you wary. “I know you had something to do with my son’s disappearance. I will rip the truth out of you, but I’ll start with _her_. Let’s see how long your resolve holds when you are faced with a choice between her life and your own.”

A barrel of a gun digs into your skull, making the cut against the back of your head ache.

You calculate the trajectory and the distance between you and the figure behind you.

Disarming the man would be easy enough if you could get your muscles to obey and move fast enough.

The issue is another ten men in the room and Boutin himself.

Not to mention Santino.

An open target for them to exploit.

As if confirming that thought, a gun gets levelled on his head, too.

Another warning.

No, this is about biding your time—

“Oh, I will kill you for this,” Santino vows, low and icy, as he glares hole into the older man.

Boutin appears curious though. Pensive.

“I was under impression that you D’Antonios don’t have hearts,” he points out mildly. “Yet she elicits such a…response.”

His hand lifts casually and the pressure against your head lessens but doesn’t drop entirely.

“Fear not, boy,” Boutin starts, his tone wooden, and grasps your chin between his fingers. His skin is dry and leathery, his touch just as subtly unpleasant as the rest of him. “I have different plans for the viper,” he states calmly and you jerk out of his grip, glaring.

The man gives you a thin smile.

“Separate them,” he orders. “Let’s see which one breaks _first_.”

_ **. . .** _

You knew your weapons were missing from the moment you first woke up. 

When you train yourself to be so aware of everything about your own body and every advantage available, you begin to track the smallest of details.

_Survival is decided in moments. Find them._

John’s voice whispers against your ear and you walk at a steady, orderly pace.

Which one breaks _first_.

Boutin’s words have burrowed under your skin and you know he meant them.

You have no intention of sticking around long enough to find out the answer to that.

They split you up before they removed you from the room, dragging you both in different directions. You count your steps, track every turn. The most important thing is not to let them lead you too far away that you can’t find your way back to Santino.

The Italian’s reaction to Boutin’s words has been the exact opposite of your apathy.

Santino has always been a raging volcano; volatile, dangerous, and quick to erupt. He has sworn vengeance. The bloodshed that Camorra will soak the Dragon in with pleasure.

His words held promise and power.

Perhaps that’s why Boutin’s complete lack of reaction struck you as so...odd.

Initially, you had chalked it up to arrogance—there is certainly an abundance of it found in just about every male you have ever encountered in this business—but this had been _different_.

Boutin knows what Camorra is capable of. He _fears_ them, or at least fears Giovanni. Otherwise, he won’t have chosen seclusion the way he has for decades.

So why is he so sure that there will be no consequences for taking the heir of an Italian powerhouse? This goes so much further than _just_ Camorra’s wrath, too. This is a family with a great many powerful allies on its side. Not to mention the startling amount of control and presence they have at the High Table.

Something about all of this doesn’t make _sense_.

The lack of fear, the preparation that has gone into this—they all point to more than just an attempt to torture answers out of you.

How will Boutin react if the truth about Rafael comes out?

_They will torture and kill you both. Slowly._

Swallowing at that desultory, cool assessment inside your mind, you slow your gait.

“Move it,” a muffled voice grouses from behind you in an accent that makes you think Eastern Europe. “You know we will hurt you.”

_Shocker_.

Your hands have been bound but the guards are still alert.

It made you feel queasy to have the roughness of rope cut into your wrists once again.

But it had not been the time to act. Not yet.

“I feel...”

You drop to the side.

The guard reacts on instinct, grabbing you by the forearm to slow your descent to the ground.

Your elbow smashes directly against his temple, numbing it enough to make your arm droop. Other two guards react at once, pulling up their weapons but it’s too late. You drop against the guard that was leading you, yanking the gun from his hand and planting a bullet in his face and the two guards behind him.

Only one dies immediately due to your shaky aim, and it takes another bullet each to finish off the other two.

The spike of adrenaline drains too quickly and you slump to your knees, breathing one harsh breath after another.

Your muscles twitch under your skin but your ears strain.

Two bullets too many.

But the gunshots had sounded muffled when they fired, dampened by the dirt and the flesh. A small mercy but one you’re not quick to thank for. It’s still no guarantee that someone hasn’t heard or will come to check soon enough.

_Move_, John orders sternly, _or they will kill you. Move_.

You start with your hands.

After Tokyo, after it took weeks for the skin of your wrists to heal, you made sure to practice getting out of binds constantly. With enough time most binds can be broken out of.

Time, however, is one thing you don’t have a lot of right now.

Still, doing more damage than you wanted, you manage to rip your wrists free. The skin already looks abused and scratched from loosening the ropes but you ignore it, wrapping the length of it around your right hand instead.

A good weapon to use.

The pistol only has two bullets left in the magazine—it won’t take you very far.

The other guards only have a knife between them. Still, you grasp the unfamiliar, heavy weight in your hand. Balancing the metal between your fingers, you try to familiarise yourself with the shape and the feel of it.

Wiping the back of your hand over your forehead, you dig deeper and deeper into yourself to find the strength to go on. Your earlier panic still lingers in your veins but you ignore it, clutching onto that clinical set of instructions inside your head.

Either you get it together or you _die_.

Your eyes press shut and you stand, shaky, mumbling all the turns and twists you took to get here in this far away tunnel.

Now, more than ever, you wish you could find that stillness John sometimes mentioned.

The sensation of perfect clarity that allows you to slip into nothing but pure instinct. Where there is no pain, no exhaustion, no limits.

But you’re not John.

As everyone is always so quick to remind you.

Fingertips tracing the walls and relying on nothing but touch and memory and sound, you move through the tunnels.

For at least five minutes there is nothing but the beat of your heart.

Then—

Dull footsteps ahead and you pause, your eyes opening.

The rope in your hand loosens and you wrap the other edge around your left palm. The rope stretches and you relax your muscles, waiting, ready.

The soldier rounds the corner and you land a quick, brutal kick to his knee, making him double over. The rope wraps around his neck and you cross your arms, slamming against his body and pulling the rope taut around his neck.

The man splutters, groaning, trying to pull the rope away from his throat but you press closer, digging your elbows into his back. The man twists, attempting to throw you over his body but you wrap your legs around his waist from behind, clinging to him. The splutters grow weaker by the second and you breathe harshly against his ear as he falls over, your body weight keeping him pinned down.

Time seems to crawl as he stills. You wait for another twenty seconds though.

You’re not about to take any chances.

Loosening the rope, you slice the blade against his neck for good measure, too. 

Pushing the heavy body to the side, you leave it in a shadowed edge of the tunnel.

Wherever _here_ is, it’s an old but sturdy premise.

You encounter another three soldiers before you manage to track down Santino. Shadows and silence are your best weapons and you don’t waste your precious bullets.

Rope and a knife.

Not quick and not clean but still effective.

The metal door is shut but hovering your ear over the door, you can still make out the voices inside.

“You know, I’ve heard about you,” a man speaks and you crack the door open centimetre by centimetre after undoing the latch; no doubt a way to stop Santino from getting out in the event he manages to get loose. “D’Antonio. The Smiling Shark. I’ve been waiting for a chance to cut up your pretty-boy face.”

This holding room is a smaller version of the one you first woke up in. Though you can’t see his face, you spot Santino seated on a chair in the middle of the room, a bright light illuminating his lean frame.

“_Oh_? You think I’m pretty? I’m flattered.”

It’s an effort not to roll your eyes.

Crouching low, you stalk closer, your steps silent.

The guard grabs a knife from his hostler. An ugly, crude thing meant to scare and do damage.

“Forget waiting—”

You jump on him from behind, driving your own blade deep into the unguarded flesh of his neck.

“Guess you’ll have to wait a little longer,” you rasp into his ear and slash the knife horizontally, not wasting any time.

The man barely has time to gasp before fresh blood rains across the dark dirt and you push his body to the side. You slow the descent just enough to void any loud noises as you wipe the bloody blade on the guard’s clothes.

Your eyes lift towards the Camorra heir but Santino is already staring at you.

The look in his eyes is not one you have ever seen. He has bestowed you with plenty of intense, heated looks before but this is something _else_. 

“You okay?”

“You’re incredible.”

That’s genuine and it almost makes you smile. Instead, you arch an eyebrow and approach him, readying the blade. Your arms feel like lead and he no doubt notices your shakiness as you hack at the binds holding his arms tied behind him.

There is a fresh smear of blood against the corner of his mouth but other than that he appears the same.

The binds loosen and you rip them off. Santino lifts his hands at once, rubbing his wrists with a scowl all while he peers at the dead guard.

“Come on,” you prompt when he stands to his feet. “We need to get out before someone notices we’re gone.”

You step past him, listening for any sounds outside. Your time is limited before someone finds the dead guards and calls for a search.

“Wait.”

Your head snaps in his direction in disbelief.

“_Wait_?” you repeat, bewildered. “Waiting is the last thing we should be doing right now.”

Santino’s eyes find your own and he cuts the distance between you but his expression—eager, wild—is one that spells danger.

“They talked with me, bella,” he begins, a note of urgency in his accented voice, and leans so close you’re practically face to face. “I goaded them into revealing some interesting things about this place. It is rigged to _blow_. A security measure.”

A beat of hushed silence.

“Tell me that you’re not _that_ stupid and reckless.”

The disbelief in your voice makes him sigh and press his eyes shut briefly before he turns his attention back to you. 

“We blow this rotting pit to hell and bury Boutin and his men inside.”

He says that like it’s _so damn easy_. 

You pull back, your eyes searching over his features only to realise that yes—yes, he is indeed _that_ reckless and stupid.

“I don’t know what kind of delusion you live under, Santino,” you hiss quietly, leaning closer as well. “But I reassure you, I am _no_ superhuman. I’m barely standing and have a knife and some rope on me. You’re no fighter, either—a liability as far as combat is concerned. And you _really_ expect to blindly go into this, knowing what I do about your thirst for revenge when it comes to this man, and _no_ exit plan when you blow everything up while we’re still _here_?”

Santino’s exhale of frustration almost equals your own. He drags his palm over his face, wiping the blood staining his skin. His body stands straight and you see the stubborn set of his jaw.

“I _lied_. Inside the room. I knew that they were watching and listening, cara mia,” he clarifies hurriedly, and the insistence in his voice makes your eyes narrow. “I woke up when we were still in transit. I memorised the path, bella. I know how to get us out of here,” he says with a meaningful stare, and adds a pointed, “This is nothing new to me, remember?”

Is this a skill he had to learn over the years? Being able to track where he is being taken to?

“And you expect me to just believe that?”

His eyes flash.

He hesitates for a breath.

“Yes,” he whispers and reaches for your face. His fingers brush over the arch of your cheek and you find yourself frowning. “_Trust me_.”

You _shouldn’t_.

He’s out for revenge.

Your strength is failing.

You have no exit strategy other than his word that he knows the way out.

But—

His petulant stare as he ate the fruit crawls back. That burgundy suit he wore.

His unspoken belief that you are stronger than this—that you deserve better.

He could have dangled you like a prize in front of Rafael and while he did, he never allowed the other man to touch you. Santino tried to keep you safe even when it was potentially compromising his own self-interests.

He could have thrown you under the bus the moment you killed Rafael. He could have used you as a scapegoat. He has certainly done so plenty of times before.

But he _didn’t_. He’s been doing everything in his power to keep you both safe.

He didn’t leave you even when you told him to run, either. He’s here, right now, because he made that decision—to take that risk.

And maybe—

_Maybe_ you know a thing or two about that smouldering, never-dying need for retribution.

For revenge.

It’s those realisations that open your mouth. “_Fine_. Just so they don’t follow us.”

You both know that you’re lying.

But he doesn’t point it out.

Wasting no time, you move towards the dead guard, ransacking his body for any other weapons.

Your fingers wrap around a well-loved Beretta 92 and you almost snort at the irony of it all. The magazine is full though and you grip it firmer. Your hands are trembling so hard, you almost bite your tongue to stop yourself from cursing.

Long, burning fingers wrap around your hands and you flinch.

Santino’s gaze is cautious. 

“Let me.”

“Do you even know how—”

His fingers are gentle while he peels your fingers away from the handle. 

“I’m the son of Camorra, cara mia,” he points out flatly, almost peeved. “I will endeavour _not_ to be insulted by your implication.”

Under different circumstances that might have gotten a smile or even a laugh out of you but right now you only step closer to him.

Santino pauses in checking the pistol, his eyes roaming over your features, taken aback by the closeness.

“When we’re out there, I will need you to have my back,” you tell him, low and solemn, and he matches your sombre stare, unblinking. “Or we _both_ die. Stay behind me. Shoot _only_ when the situation is dire.”

“I have no intention of dying here,” he informs you flatly, his voice as supercilious as you’re used to hearing it. “Do you?”

You give him a stony look.

“Let’s bury that asshole.”

You march past him but still catch a glimpse of a smirk on his face as he turns to follow you.

Both knives you’ve stolen weigh heavily in your hands. One is larger than the other, too, which will be an issue. Fighting is always made harder when there is no equilibrium between the blades.

Ignoring that, you dig deeper and deeper—

Shouts ring in the distance and you freeze just as you both exit the holding room.

The tunnel is empty on both sides but a bolt of urgency shoots through you at the commotion in the distance.

“They know.”

Santino says nothing but this is probably the most serious you have ever seen him. He nods his head left and you move ahead of him, both knives gripped securely.

There is urgency in your steps as you occasionally turn towards him to check where to go next. The further you go the more sounds of unrest grow.

They’re searching for you.

At this rate, it’s a matter of time only until they find you. Unless you beat them to it by blowing these tunnels.

Your arm snaps out.

Santino bumps against it, halting at once. His green eyes meet yours and you shake your head, nodding for him to get behind you. For once, he listens wordlessly but sticks close. You can feel the faint heat of his body tickling the back of your bare neck as you lower yourself into a crouch. The man behind you hesitates but then follows your lead.

You’re in front of a fork in the tunnels but—

_Count. How many?_

A phantom of John crouches opposite to you, his expression merciless. Icy. A manifestation of that hunter instinct he worked so hard to instil into you.

Your eyes flutter closed and you strain your senses. 

_Five_.

Barely audible tremors against the ground. The rhythm. The shuffling of boots that’s too substantial to mask fully.

You don’t know if you can take five of them—

You’re not strong enough.

_Focus. Hesitation will kill you. Go for the veins. Don’t give them time to react._

He’s right. There is no room for fear or doubts now. Too much depends on the next two minutes.

_Stay with me_.

Your shadow, your beloved ghost, gives you a too kind, _I will._

That’s how you know he’s not real.

But that hurt—a blistering, swelling thing—rips through your heart and washes away all else. 

And then—

tip backwards,

nothingness,

and finally,

—_stillness_.

A step in the dirt just around the corner.

Your eyes open.

A _crunch_.

You go straight for the femoral vein, severing it in one stab before you slice upwards through the thigh, the man’s blood spilling immediately as you jump to your feet.

The second blade lands in his neck.

You yank mercilessly, and the figure right behind the first—now half-dead—soldier doesn’t react fast enough before you throw the blade right at his chest.

The blade sticks and the soldier grapples for it with desperation fuelled by agony.

You allow him the luxury of pulling the blade out for you before you drop the first soldier, and throw your spare blade at the third man further away.

It hits his shoulder like a bullet.

You leap at the second soldier at once and grabbing his arms, drive the bloodied blade back into his chest, harder this time. You slam the heel of your palm into the hilt twice, ramming the metal even deeper, and kick the soldier’s feet from under him just as bullets hit his body. The shield holds and the slight pause in the rapid-fire gives you an opening to rip the blade from the man’s chest. You sprint at the third soldier who just about got the second blade out.

Your legs wrap around his chest and a wicked slash is all it takes to finish him off.

Rolling over, you slip yourself under the dead soldier’s body as more bullets hit. Your fingers dig into the soil as you wait.

_Click. Click. Click._

Pushing the body away at the sound of empty chambers, you throw dirt at the fourth soldier’s face, followed by a slippery blade. It lands in his thigh and the man yelps in pain.

The coppery stench of fresh blood finally coats the back of your throat but you ignore it, leaping to your feet.

The fifth soldier backs off, desperately hurrying to reload—

_Watch your flank_, a mix of John and Cassian warns and you tuck yourself to one side, distributing your weight evenly as the fourth soldier charges at you.

A punch flies towards your face.

Too slow.

Spinning on your heels, you duck, looping his arm in the noose of the rope you have fashioned, wrenching his arm backwards. Slamming your foot into the back of his leg, you let him fall to his knees, whirling around to hurl a blade at the filth soldier. The man you’re holding pulls on the rope, throwing your aim off, and the blade pierces the tunnel wall instead.

Shoving your knee against the fourth soldier’s spine, you crack his neck—

** _BANG_ **

You still.

The body of the fifth soldier falls to the floor behind you with a groan. Your head turns and Santino lowers the gun slightly, meeting your stormy stare.

The haze lifts and you gasp a breath, loosening the rope till the fourth soldier drops to the ground as well.

You dip your head in a grateful nod.

Santino steps closer, his gaze searching. “Bella?”

“I’m _fine_.”

You’re trembling so badly, he doesn’t look convinced by your words. He extends his hand to touch you but you stumble past him, kneeling to stick the blade into the final soldier after removing it from the wall.

Santino got him in the chest but not in any vital spots. Still, you know you would be dead if he hadn’t fired that bullet.

“That must be the room,” he speaks from in front of you and you glance up to where he’s looking. “Come on, bella.”

Now the presence of these soldiers makes sense. They were guarding the control room. Gripping the gun in his hand—and it is admittedly a sight that unnerves you because you’re not used to seeing Santino handling weapons—he points it at the door, nodding at you.

Your attention lingers on him for a second before you retrieve your blades and stagger towards the door as well. It’s worn, cheap metal and you hear the creak of hinges as you push it open cautiously.

There is no one inside.

You check twice before entering with Santino behind you.

The camera feed focuses on the giant room where you first woke up with several screens showing different angles. The room itself is dark and smells musty and old with just enough cool dampness permeating through the air. Both of you ignore everything else as you busy yourselves with finding any form of a detonator.

Your movements are sluggish but you compel your body to move through gritted teeth.

“Cara mia,” Santino calls out after few moments of searching and your attention snaps to him. He’s standing in a darkened corner next to the control panel and you walk towards him. “I do believe I found it.”

Yes, besides the camera controls and light controls, sitting at the very edge of the platform and enclosed in glass is a button that only reads _Emergency Exit_.

“They say that this is what it was called,” he reveals before you can ask, and you share a brief look. He reaches for the glass encasement, using the back of the gun to smash the glass and hovers his hand over it. “After all these years…”

His voice fades off and you listen to his unsteady breaths for a few seconds.

“Boutin may not even be here,” you point out lightly.

You haven’t seen him since your separation after all. You have no proof he’s still here.

Santino exhales, his shoulders curving. “I know.”

His hand smashes against the button.

At first, there is nothing.

Then, a splitting screech of a siren rips through the air and the camera footage cuts off, every available screen switching to a countdown instead.

_00:05:00_

_00:04:59_

_00:04:58_

Wincing, you grasp Santino by the crook of his elbow. “Run,” you say and realise a second later that your voice is lost in the blare of the siren. You tug him to you, his eyes meeting your own. “_Run_!”

You both do.

Pushing out of the room, you react just fast enough to stick your blade in a soldier’s gut, throwing him off you unceremoniously. Santino fires two bullets over your shoulder, the sound swallowed by the earsplitting warning chime.

One hits in the neck and another in a shoulder but you finish off anyone alive with your blade.

Your knees knock together as you try to rise and Santino is suddenly there, his large hand around your forearm as he helps you stand.

He doesn’t try to speak over the deafening sound simply leading you in whatever direction you hope the exit lays.

Stumbling side by side, you hurry through the tunnels, taking turn after turn. With each new opening to another seemingly endless stretch of darkness, you start to feel your hope waining.

The Italian wears a muted glare on his face, his expression pinched, focused. His bright eyes tracking over every turn and you see him muttering under his breath.

You’re wasting too much time.

“Santino—”

You both round another corner and you feel it.

A shift in the musty, damp air.

Something colder and more biting stings through your throat with every inhale and you gasp, a puff of visible air exploding from your lips.

Santino looks triumphant and raises his eyebrow at you when your eyes meet—

You push him out of the way.

The bullet hits just where his head was moments ago and you fall on top of him, covering him as he drags you both backwards, firing two bullets at the target behind you.

A tunnel wall finally covers you as bullets hit the dirt overhead. Dust and soil rain down on you both. Risking a peek to the left, you catch a glimpse of a metal door in the far distance. The exit.

So close.

But you still have at least another minute and a half on the clock and the soldiers are drawing closer.

Grabbing the heir by the shoulder, you take the gun from his hand. “Go!” you shout from the top of your lungs and even then your voice sounds faint when compared to the gunfire and the warning sirens. “Get out of here. I’ll cover you.”

“No—”

You shrug off his grip. “Get your hands off me and get the hell out. _Run_!”

You shove him away but he lingers. His glare is dark, biting.

A bullet hits near your feet and you round the corner shooting the first black-clad figure right in the face. At this proximity, it’s impossible to miss, and you fire the remaining bullets at the swarm of soldiers before ducking back around as more lead pelts the tunnel walls.

The siren continues blaring.

Santino is gone.

The soldier lays dead at your feet and you reach for his semi-automatic but you’re too far away. Gritting your teeth, you wait for split-second pause that means someone is reloading or trying to rearm.

A second and you leap ahead, rolling across the floor, grabbing the semi-automatic as you go. Dirt sprays around you and your grip slips for a second—a few breaths of silence that cost you—before you unload the mostly full magazine onto the approaching soldiers.

It shreds through them ruthlessly and you duck for cover and fire.

Duck and fire.

The magazine is almost empty by now but you have John’s training on your side. Most shots are not even headshots. But it’s enough to slow them down. You spot one soldier turning around and running back into the tunnels as if realising that this is pointless and this entire place is about to blow anyway.

Which makes you so much more aware of your own time—

A boom in the distance almost makes you fall over.

You grip onto the wall and ignoring the few remaining soldiers, pump whatever little strength you still have left into your legs, dashing straight ahead. The soldiers don’t fire, no doubt realising that they don’t have time for that, either.

Soil rains down on your head and you sprint ahead as earth trembles beneath your feet.

More tremors and another explosion tears through the air.

You don’t need to look behind you to know that the tunnels are collapsing right behind you.

The door ahead is wide open though. The dark, frigid night beckons.

Which means that Santino got out.

You stumble as the ground cracks beneath your feet, throwing you.

_Don’t stop_.

It’s a roar all around you and in your head.

Dirt falls over your shoulders and fills your lungs—

Swallowing a shout of frustration, you sprint ahead and throw your body in a leap.

Hitting the ground roughly, you roll several times, throwing your arms over your face as destruction shatters the tranquil night air.

Dirt and soot fall onto you in heavy bursts.

You remain curled on the ground, trying not to choke.

Destruction, crumbling soil and metal and then…

Quiet.

Just as quickly as it began, it falls eerily quiet.

Your ears ring and you cough, shuddering in your spot as soil slides down your cheek and shoulder.

Twitching, you roll onto your back and gasp for breath, savouring the torment that’s the bitter Chicago air filling your lungs.

You’re not quite sure where you are. It appears to be some sort of middle-of-nowhere industrial estate, except there are no other buildings around.

You see no stars above, either. Thick, rolling clouds cling to the sky instead.

No matter how hard you try to move your body, you can’t. Whatever was left had been sapped away. You’ve given too much and your body has hit its limits. Once—before John and his _wedding_—you would have been able to walk away from this with your head held high.

Before he _abandoned_ you. Before you allowed the spectre of him to cripple you further, clinging onto him like a hopeless, lovesick fool. Before you let him and the pain caused by him diminish your strength.

_Enough_.

The knot in your throat suddenly tastes like _hatred_.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t quite swallow it down.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, simply breathing and staring at the sky.

It’s so cold. You’re both cold and numb and…

Footsteps crunch against the gravel. 

Oh, you’ve almost forgotten. _Santino_.

Your head slants slightly to the side, trying to spot him.

You can’t believe you feel an actual pinprick of relief—happiness even—at the thought of seeing—

The kick to your stomach is strong enough to jolt your entire body to the side.

A scream of pain doesn’t quite escape but you curl into yourself with a whimper.

A weight drops on top of you, bony fingers sinking into your hair and jerking your head till you’re on your back.

Boutin’s furious face appears above you. A deep cut runs across his left temple, spilling blood all over his weathered, dirt-smeared face.

“The _Viper_.”

His gnarly fingers wrap around your throat and you try to beat his hands back but your own barely obey.

“I will _destroy_ you,” the man whispers. “If not me then the one after me.”

Your fingers release his, trying to reach for the gun under your clothes that you held onto as a failsafe. There are still two bullets—

His palm slams against your cheek and you choke out a pained cry.

His fingers rip at the hard lump under your dirty and bloodstained sweater. He grasps the gun in his hand, looking down at you as his other hand remains wrapped around your throat.

“_No_—”

Boutin smiles. “Do not worry, viper,” he says mildly, almost mocking. “This would be too quick. I’m old-fashioned. I prefer seeing life drain from someone’s eyes.”

He throws the gun away and you almost sob.

You try to find that clarity again, try to grasp onto any shred of strength still left in you but—

But there is nothing.

Your mind is barren.

No Cassian, no Winston, no John, either.

You’re _alone_.

Boutin’s fingers grip your throat and he squeezes as your eyes fill with tears.

Tighter, more painfully tight.

Darkness fills the edges of your vision.

_I don’t want to be alone—_

“Let her go.”

The pressure lifts.

Santino.

Boutin is frozen on top of you. The heir stands beside your bodies, his arm raised and your gun gripped in his hand as he presses the nozzle into Boutin’s temple.

“The Table will have your head for this,” the older man hisses, his eyes dark. “You have no idea how much power I have. Or my purpose. Do you, boy? There are things out there that are more frightening than even the Table. Don’t be foolish like your father.”

Santino’s expression is empty though.

“_We_ killed your son,” Santino reveals, his voice cold, mocking. Boutin goes so still you’re not sure if he’s still breathing. “He died _begging_ for mercy. I wanted you to know that.”

“Do you have any idea—”

Santino doesn’t let him finish. “You will never take anyone from me ever again.”

“_Boy_—”

** _BANG_ **

Boutin falls to the side, his weight disappearing as he slumps dead.

It’s quiet again.

“_Amore_? Can you hear me?” Santino’s urgent, silky voice speaks from above you, and his hands cup your cheeks as he carefully turns your face towards him. His familiar, round features register in your mind and your expression crumbles. “I got you, hm? Look at me. You’re safe now. I will never let anyone harm you again.”

He wraps his arm around you, carefully pulling you into a sitting position. Your cheek rests against his shoulder for a second before you pull away.

Silent tears drip down your cheeks and you don’t try to wipe them away.

Your throat hurts.

_Everything_ hurts.

All those years of pain and abuse.

Tarasov.

Kishi.

John.

Rafael.

Boutin.

Something deep down crumbles to _nothing_.

A flood of grief and pain so powerful follows that you tip your head towards the inky, vast sky above you and let out a scream.

You roar at the sky, letting loose every shred of repressed anger and pain you’ve been bottling up. Every scream you’ve ever held back rips right out of you.

Your throat feels raw and bloody by the time you choke on a sob, your body slanting till your forehead is practically pressing into your knees.

Santino is silent beside you as you cry; a few, muffled sniffles escaping you. He doesn’t touch you either and you’re grateful.

Tranquil night air keeps you company for a long time.

It’s so cold.

Eventually, your cries subside, growing fainter.

Another few minutes pass before your head lifts slowly.

You reach for the scratched hand beside you. “H-help me…stand.”

He does.

His arm wraps around you and he pulls you to him. Your legs feel numb.

Santino touches your cheek and your eyes find his own, your vision blurring as he grips you around the waist. Ashamed, you try to turn away from his probing stare but his grip tightens. His fingers flatten against your cheek and he scrutinises you intently, transfixed. 

His expression feels like another kick.

Torn and bloodied, he holds you to him with security that almost makes you feel safe. 

“The…body.”

He understands.

Those green depths finally slide towards the dead man—no regret there—and then towards the only car in your line of sight.

He knows what he has to do.

You’re too weak to help but you watch as Santino drags Boutin towards the car. He dumps the body inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He stares inside for a while and you wonder what’s going through his mind before he stalks to the side and opens the fuel cap.

He hesitates again, pensive, but begins his trek back towards you.

If this gets out—what you just did and the people you killed—you will _both_ be killed for it.

The Black Dragon is an extension of the High Table and you just killed its leader and heir.

Santino _might_ get out of it alive. His title, however, would be stripped from him which you know for him would be as good as death.

That means that you have to destroy the evidence.

He halts before you, peering at you silently as he offers you the gun.

You reach out and squeeze his fingers around it weakly.

“For Emilia.”

For a second—just one—his expression wavers before he controls himself with a forceful swallow and a tilt of his chin, all arrogance.

His wild curls flutter in the air as he comes to stand beside you and raises his arm, aiming.

One bullet left.

He doesn’t miss. 

This time the explosion that follows and the open, hot flame that devours the car are things you welcome. 

You and Santino stand side by side and watch as Andre Boutin turns to ash.

_ **. . .** _

New York skyline is a sight that makes you chest ache.

With relief instead of dread.

You never thought you will see it again.

From Santino’s penthouse apartment terrace, you gaze out and towards your city with a thoughtful frown.

You’ve spent the night at Doc’s clinic. That’s how long it took for the man to patch you up. He’s the only one you could ever trust to do so and keep his mouth shut about it.

It’s been a little over a day since you’ve come back from Chicago.

It took an hour of trekking through dirt roads and snow before you and Santino managed to find your way back towards civilisation. Additional two before you were reunited with too pale Ares who had looked at you both and not asked a thing.

You were lucky that a homeless man at the gas station had enough change for a quick call on the payphone. By the time the black SUV rolled into the station with its tires screeching, you were practically comatose with only Santino’s arms keeping you upright. Your last memory before you lost consciousness had been of Santino paying back the homeless man with a check for 40k.

You don’t remember the flight back to New York, nor the emergency care you received.

The window in which you were both unaccounted for was far too substantial not to draw suspicion.

So it’s been your idea to suggest that if anyone comes sniffing to give them a simple answer.

You were fucking and dining and drinking.

Most already assume you warm Santino’s bed. Why not give them a confirmation, especially when it’s the easiest and most effective way to get rid of any unwanted attention?

It will come back to bite you.

But if it helps to dispel the suspicion that will fall onto you at some point—

“Ciao, bella. How are you feeling?”

You turn around, glancing behind you with a blink.

Santino strolls towards you with a fresh, crisp three-piece and black overcoat while his hands stay in his pockets. Sunglasses on and his hair neatly combed, he looks exactly like he always does. A man of wealth and status. Not a curl or seam out of place. But when he stops beside you, the sun reveals the faint traces of bruises dotting his skin, only masked by an expert layer of makeup.

Everything to deter suspicion.

You haven’t seen him since you landed.

Both due to him needing to do some recon and you needing urgent care.

You wonder how he feels now that Boutin is dead. If he feels relieved and happy that it was by his hand. One day, you will do the same with Tarasov.

“Like I never thought I will see this city again.”

His head slants towards you with a thoughtful hum and the breeze ruffles his clothes. His styled curls stay in place and you’re not sure why you feel a faint stab of disappointment at that.

“The news has reached the High Table,” he informs you calmly and you swallow, your skin crawling. “They know Boutin and his men are dead.”

“And?”

“_And_?” he repeats with a cutting grin before removing his dark shades and looking towards you. His eyes seem even more piercing in daylight. “I reassure you, cara mia, if they knew my father would have crucified us both by now,” he explains and you know he’s right. “The site was completely demolished. _Hm_, they were unable to find anything except Boutin’s burned skeleton,” he adds with a pointed look in your direction.

You stare at each other for a beat.

“So no one knows,” is your low, disbelieving assessment.

Santino only dips his head, his attention sliding towards the city.

“No—and it’s in our best interest to keep it that way, no?”

It’s a leading statement. A poke at a question that’s no doubt been on his mind just as much as it has been on yours.

Can you trust one another to keep this secret when betrayal could mean the destruction of the other?

Shifting on your feet, you ignore the twinge of discomfort you feel through your body, and grip the railing, levelling him with a solemn gaze. 

“What we did, we did together,” you say, your words hushed, frank. “The blame is as much mine as it is yours. I will not betray you.”

Santino doesn’t react.

It takes another minute at least before he finally turns to face you.

His eyes rove over your features. Hard, searching.

He’s still the same as he was before but…there _is_ something different now. You can taste it and feel it. A new layer of _something_ sits snugly between you.

You relied upon and protected each other.

Saved each other from death.

That binds people for life. You just never expected it to be _him_.

“Just so we are clear, bella,” he begins and steps closer, adjusting his overcoat. “Your life does not matter less than mine, do you understand? Don’t ever say something like that to me again.”

That’s not exactly the response you expected. 

“You’re the heir of Camorra.”

His life will always outweigh yours. It’s not that yours doesn’t matter but—

“And you are the woman who saved my life,” he states lowly and watches your from beneath furrowed brows, something simmering in his eyes. “That is not a debt I will be quick to forget.”

This time, you take a step towards him as well.

“You saved my life, too,” you remind him, squinting at him in the sunlight. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

A playful slant of his mouth greets those words.

“Oh? Well, that’s what friends are for, no?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat—still tender from all you’ve been through in these last few days—and shake your head.

_“Friends_. I have seen how you treat your friends, Santino,” you point out knowingly, casting a thoughtful look his way. “Knife in the back the moment they stop being useful to you. I’m not here to play that kind of game.”

He leans close like his next words are for you alone; a secret just between you. 

“Then perhaps you can be my exception, _hm_?” he wonders in a murmur but the look in his eyes is…unusual. Warm, almost. It makes you shift in discomfort. Just for a second, his eyes flicker towards your lips. “My first real friend. No games.”

Your throat feels dry, your next words a whisper, “And is that what you really want from me? _Friendship_?”

Friends don’t look at each other the way he looks at you.

A taunting twitch of his lips is your reply but it doesn’t have the same effect it used to. Before it was irritation at his nerve.

Now—

“For the sake of transparency in our newfound _friendship_,” he admits quietly and his hand comes to grip the railing. Sun dances over his tanned skin and your eyes latch onto those bruises again. His scratched skin. “I will admit that no, that is not what I truly desire.”

Shameless and blunt as always. But it’s better than lies. You almost find his directness refreshing.

Face-to-face, Santino D’Antonio regards you with obvious longing, not even bothering to hide the sultry note in his next hungry words. “What I desire, amore, is to take you back to my home back in Naples and make love to you in my bed till we both forget our own names,” he purrs gently, slanting his head as he watches you, and those words hit you like a brick. The simplicity of them, the ease with which he admits exactly what he wants. _You_. “I want to adore every inch of you till you forget the world exists. Till I see you smile and laugh. Till I know every sensitive spot in your body. Till you realise that you do not have to be alone anymore, _hm_?”

His eyes narrow, his expression almost devilish, before he continues. “Ah, what I _really_ want is every last bit of you that you’re still unwilling to part with. But that’s fine, cara mia. For now, I will take your friendship.”

You consider him for a tense moment, reminding yourself to breathe. “And if I choose not to give it?”

He leans back a touch—just barely. 

“_Ah_, as it so happens a very beautiful and incredibly smart woman once told me that I can be...irritatingly persistent.”

A small snort escapes you and you shake your head again, wishing he wasn’t so…_him_. So capable of getting under your skin—and so easily. 

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.”

His eyes gleam. “She does. She’s wonderful company, really.”

“Even when she calls you a pompous asshole?”

A grin that’s all teeth and genuine amusement. You wish he didn’t appear so delighted by your reluctant wordplay.

_“Especially_ then.”

Your eyes lower.

You can’t do this to him, or yourself.

You can’t give him hope where there is none.

It would be too cruel to allow this to continue further.

“It wasn’t real,” you tell him, firm and prompt, and allow your eyes to jump back to him. “What happened between us during that poker game. I was just playing the part.”

His demeanour changes subtly. A tightening of his shoulders, an unhappy press of his lips, and complete drainage of that fondness you saw only moments ago.

But you continue despite it. “I love him. I still do,” you confess in a fragile, pained whisper. “I think that I hate him, too, but I also think that it will always be him despite it. I can’t give you what you want.”

It surprises you that you feel genuine remorse sting your heart at those words.

You reach out, running your fingers over his silken patterned tie, fixing the crooked lines for him. 

“Thank you for all you did,” you utter softly, meeting his sombre, dark gaze. Your words are sincere despite it. “Thank you for proving me wrong. Thank you for showing me that you’re not as bad as everyone thinks that you are, you sly, conniving _bastard_,” you tease with a slight, frayed chuckle and press your palm briefly against his chest. “But how long before you start resenting me for that?”

He doesn’t answer you, his expression stony. He won’t betray whatever he does feel. He’s too proud for that.

That’s what you thought.

Giving him a faint but genuine smile, you pull back, turning to walk away.

You need to go back to the Continental. Transfer the money you made to Tarasov before he comes knocking.

Santino’s voice halts your feet though. 

“You didn’t give me an answer, bella.”

Your lips part and you look back towards him.

He stands where you left him, still gripping the railing. His head tilts in your direction, and you’re surprised to find that the insistent, mischievous gleam is still present in his eyes.

He’s not going to give up.

It’s an odd realisation to come to. But you can see it on his face.

A friend, huh?

“I suppose we’ll have to see if you’re worth the bother, _Santi_.”

He actually laughs at that, his teeth gleaming even at this distance. 

“Have dinner with me.”

It’s not a demand.

With everything that you two have been through, this much you can give him.

“_Fine_,” you grouse, and make a point of sounding like he’s being a bother but he sees through it, his grin widening. “Tomorrow night. I hope you don’t expect me to be cheap.”

His warm laugh follows you out of the terrace.

**.**

For the first time in a while, you feel happy.

The Continental feels like a welcoming embrace you desperately needed. Alongside a lot of sleep and food. Doc’s very strict and unamused instructions. You’ve lost weight and muscle mass. Amongst other things but you will regain those, too.

For the first time since the wedding, you feel strangely lucid. Filled with a purpose that you have no name for.

But you suppose that’s how it works. Things have to be completely torn down before they can be rebuilt.

And you _will_.

_Enough_ letting others destroy you through their actions.

_Enough_ letting others dictate how you should feel.

_Enough_ clinging to the past, to John.

He’s happy and you will be too.

Your hotel room door appears in front of you and the sight of it almost makes you smile.

Home. Finally. Mercifully. 

Both Charon and Winston were absent when you turned up at the reception—a rarity—but you were looking forward to catching up with the manager later.

Even if you could never tell him what happened in Chicago.

Winston is a man of rules and principle. He would condemn you for what you did. Or at least could not excuse something as foolish as what happened.

But Winston also doesn’t understand what you and Santino now share.

The heir needs time, but one day you will ask him about Boutin again. 

Your hand touches the cool metal of your room handle and you freeze.

Your other hand snakes behind your back and you pull out a pistol, clicking the safety off.

You can always tell when someone has been in your room.

Scratches and marks and little traps you have set up.

Charon knows how to leave the place undisturbed.

He and Winston are the only ones who do because you’ve told them.

Not bothering with the key, you thrust the door open with a loud bang, raising your pistol to find one pointed back at you.

“Wait!”

Two men stand inside your room but neither of them is familiar.

Dark skinned and dark-eyed, they watch you with polite caution.

They don’t appear hostile though. 

“Who the hell are you?” you snarl, tracking their every twitch.

The one with lighter, golden skin raises his hands in the air slowly, a placating gesture.

The one aiming the pistol at you doesn’t lower it though.

“We mean you no harm.”

His accent is lovely. A gentle roll of vowels and syllables that most certainly points to Middle East.

Your focus doesn’t slip though, and you take two deliberate steps into your room.

Your work is locked away as usual but the fact that they managed to get in—

“Then why are you in my room without permission? The Continental rules—”

The one with darker skin and a gun interjects, his words low and monotonous, “You have been summoned.”

You almost bristle at that. “By _whom_?”

“The Elder.”

You don’t make it to dinner with Santino.

In fact, you don’t see him for seven months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, I don’t think I have ever been more nervous about a chapter and the reception for it lmao. I’m so sorry about the wait and thank you so much for supporting this story. Sorry if this wasn’t as good as usual ahhhh. 
> 
> Also, a quick note: Santino’s backstory is not here to make people go “aww, poor baby” because nah. It’s there to highlight the very grim reality of this kind of world. Santino doesn’t pity himself. His story is more to show the “this happened to me but instead of doing nothing, I chose to be terrible back” angle. I always felt like there had to be a very deep reason for his hatred for tradition/rules so this is my take on it. I also hope this finally explains why Chicago so fundamentally changed them both. Next chapter we're kicking off Parabellum so look forward to that!!
> 
> Thank you for reading <33


	17. all paths lead to nowhere;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remember this moment. This is the moment you chose to face death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news? It took over 2 months. The good news? It's almost 39k. Uh, enjoy. This one is a ride.

There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life.

Be it for better or for worse, they mark a second in which one path ceases to be and another takes its place. Sometimes this change is brought forth by one’s own actions. Other times it’s a change that is not in your control.

It’s like being caught in the eye of the storm.

Unable to fight back, unable to do anything—just a ceaseless struggle.

The clock in Doc’s clinic tolls 6pm and you feel the path you were once on disintegrate beneath your feet. You knew it was going to happen the moment John fired that bullet but now it’s an _absolute_.

Your eyes press shut and you clench the tiny box between your fingers, your head bowed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Wick.”

John only grunts. “Rules.”

“Ah, _rules_,” Doc repeats in defeat though with no small amount of disgruntlement. “V, if you hurry—”

You stand without a word, pushing back the dislodged floorboard messily back in place. Your hand slides inside your pocket, securing the box in your hand.

“Thank you, Doc.”

You don’t look at him as you say it. Your eyes linger on the ring on your middle finger and you exhale, turning to go.

“Vipress.”

You don’t turn to face him.

There is disappointed in Doc’s voice. “You can help him.”

“Doc.”

John sounds wary, his voice a soft rasp. You don’t react at first but slant your head in their direction after a moment.

There are visible traces of pain across John’s features. His dark, wet hair sticks to his face and you gaze at him for a beat, silent. Just observing him. His dark eyes are focused on you as well. You’re not sure what to make of the muted hope you see there. 

It’s odd how different he now appears to you.

He’s still John but there is something else now.

Your eyes slide towards the older man standing next to him, only to find him peering at you with a minute frown. There is an expectation in that weighted, wise gaze.

“I don’t owe him anything.”

As simple as that. For the first time since Winston told you those words weeks ago now—before this whole mess began—you feel the truth of them.

You’re done owing _anyone_ anything. Even a shred of your time.

“If that’s the case,” the older man mutters and despite your best efforts to keep your expression empty, his next words still manage to cut deep. “Then you’re no better than the rest of them.”

Your fingers form a loose fist. “And if I am?” you wonder softly. “No better than the rest of them?”

An icy caress of a question but Doc only shakes his head. “I _know_ that’s not true.”

The tension in the air hangs like a suffocating blanket. The beat of rain against the windows reverberates through the room but there are no other sounds beside it.

“It’s fine, Doc,” John inputs after an uncomfortable pause, taking the bloody needle from the man’s worn hand. “Give it to me.”

You watch as John grabs the lamp, swinging it and a mirror in his direction so he can see his own shoulder. His shaking fingers push the needle into the bloodied skin and his expression twitches, his jaw clenching. As always those are his only tells of pain.

It’s slow progress though.

Slow, painful and messy.

Your feet move.

They carry you in John’s direction in a few unhurried steps, and you don’t look towards Doc as you brush past him, shoving the lamp and the mirror aside roughly. John stills when your fingers pinch around the hook of the needle, pulling it out of his shaky hold.

Pressing your fingers against the warm, bloody skin, you sink the needle back into his shoulder carefully, pulling on it.

“(Name).”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m—”

“I said _don’t bother._”

Your eyes meet.

Ice sits inside your heart; a rigid, unmoving thing that leaves little space for anything else.

It’s a foreign feeling to you.

That look in his eyes only makes it worse. It’s a look that belongs to a man from your past—the few rare times he’s ever allowed his guard down around you to see _this_. You don’t need his care _now_.

“Where will you go?”

You sink the needle back into his skin, not answering.

He grabs your wrist and your eyes snap to him, your expression hardening.

“Get your hand off me.”

He lets go but his expression is unyielding. “I can help you escape the city.”

“Why?” you question coolly. “Guilt getting too much for you, John?”

He doesn’t try to defend his actions this time, either, and you scoff. Readjusting your grip, you sink the needle back in. Almost done now.

“You could at least _pretend_ to be sorry,” you bite out and try to block out the pain you feel. “If he _dies_—”

Your voice cuts off, a lump in your throat impossible to swallow.

Some remote emotion flickers across John’s expression briefly but you blink and it’s gone. There is regret there but you doubt it’s regret for what he did.

“I’m going to Casablanca,” he begins after another minute of silence as you finish closing the wound, wiping it clean so it doesn’t get infected. His words freeze you though. “Come with me.”

You stare at your bloodied fingers.

Your eyes find his again, and you only give him a cold and knowing, “You mean you’re going to the Elder.”

He blinks, a slight furrow appearing between his brows when he stands, buttoning his shirt. It doesn’t take him long to realise what you’re getting at. “So are you.”

“He has the power to overturn the Table’s decision.”

John turns to face you fully at that, his eyes narrowing.

The Doc stands to the side, cradling a drink in his hand as he glances towards the clock again.

“You know where he is.”

Not a question.

“No, I don’t,” you answer softly, distracted. “But meeting him is not going to be as easy as you think. You don’t find him. _He_ finds _you_.”

John steps closer, his bloodied shirt halfway buttoned up and you use a spare cloth to wipe your hands of his blood.

“You’ve met him.”

There is a faint trace of surprise there but you don’t acknowledge it. “Again, it’s not that simple,” you say, shooting a wry look towards the clock. “No one just _meets_ the Elder. You…”

You hesitate, your composure wavering, and when your eyes meet John’s again, you offer him a frank, “You have _no_ idea what he is.”

* * *

Stepping outside feels like stepping into a war zone.

You scan the cramped alleyway, squinting through the deluge for any possible targets.

John is behind you, close enough to feel the heat emitting from his body, and you try to disregard the uncomfortable lock of your back muscles.

Ignoring his presence, you look back towards the Doc and offer him a forced smile.

“I’ll be back for tea in a week or so,” you tell him mildly though your voice wavers just a bit. “You better keep the kettle hot for my favourite Jasmine tea, Doc.”

“Best of luck, dear,” Doc says, and you hear the worn sadness in his voice. “I wish you good health. Both of you.”

He doubts he will see you again but you don’t take it as an insult.

“Tarkovsky Theater,” John’s raspy voice almost makes you jump. “We can get there in 10 minutes.”

You glance at him briefly, stepping into the rain, ignoring the shock of cold water on your skin again. “Not in a mood to watch ballet.”

You start walking down the alleyway and he follows after you. “Do you have a safe way to get out of the city?”

“No,” you answer honestly, your voice bland. “But I will soon.”

John brushes against you, his body tense and ready for a fight. For a good reason, too. You’ve both effectively just became two most-wanted individuals on the planet. John even more so than you due to the large bounty on his head. 

“I have a ticket with the Ruska Roma,” he informs you and keeps up easily with your brisk pace thanks to his long legs. “I can’t change what happened but…”

Pausing at the mouth of the alleyway, you twist your body to face him, your eyes narrowed. The truth is that you would be a fool not to take his offer. Despite everything that has transpired in the last twelve hours, he’s still the safest option right now.

The issue is that shards of ice shred your heart every time you so much as look at him.

“(Name)—”

“Don’t call me that,” you bite out quietly but you know he hears you even over the pour of rain and the bustle of Chinatown. “I don’t want—”

A shift over his shoulder and you throw a blade at the blur of a figure. The metal sticks inside the man’s chest, his face contorting in pain as he collapses on his knees, his gun falling to the ground.

Stopped just in time but effectively leaving you with just one blade.

A movement of bodies behind the compact row of stalls catches your eye, more than one or even two.

John looks at you at the exact same moment you look at him.

“Run.”

You tear through the streets together, keeping ahead of the band of footsteps you can hear chasing you down. No guns yet and you count your blessings while they last.

John is unarmed, you know that much without needing a verbal confirmation, and one blade is not enough to face off against so many. 

Water clings to your lashes, leaving you busy blinking the moisture away to see clearly.

“Here.”

John shoves a door to a random building open, and you’re not sure if he knew it would be unlocked, or if he simply guessed it but you follow him inside all the same.

Breathing deeply through your nose to conserve your strength, you follow him up the staircase.

“I certainly hope you have some sort of plan instead of boxing us in.”

He turns towards you briefly. “Weapons,” he grunts and you nod in understanding, following him albeit reluctantly.

At least now you have a confirmation he’s aware of where you are after all.

The weapons around are old though, mostly antiques that are encased behind glass cases, and you’re not sure how many of them are in usable condition.

John—expert marksmen that he is—begins assembling a gun at once, pulling apart spare parts while you grab your remaining blade using the back of it to help you break the glass. Below, the door slams open, a thud of hurried footsteps racing up the creaky stairs and you straighten.

Detaching yourself from the torrent of worry and anger, you let yourself _move_.

John shoots the first man through the door with a gun he assembled seconds ago and you take care of the other two.

You share a look—a fleeting, cautious thing—and rush to the other room together, grabbing any weapon on hand.

For now, at least, you have no choice but to stick together.

The attackers come in a flurry after that.

They’re fast. Hard trained. Their attacks are successions of quick jabs and punches but you’re _faster_. You and John split apart, dividing forces and it’s almost easy after that.

The blade in your hand slips between your fingers with expert ease as you wrap your arm around one attacker, sinking the polished metal into the man’s neck _once, twice, thrice_—

A sequence of burying the blade deep into the unguarded flesh that spills blood everywhere. From the corner of your eye, you spot John on the floor and drop the body, moving towards him.

He throws himself backwards as knives sink into the wooden floor in front of him, his legs spread. He returns the favour swiftly, but unlike the attacker, he doesn’t miss. Every blade he throws finds its target.

Another man burst through the door and you throw a blade at him, hitting his shoulder. The man lurches backwards but doesn’t fall and John draws blank, his hands free of weapons.

“Axe.”

It’s the only thing you mumble as you launch yourself at the attacker pulling out the knife from his shoulder. You deliver a swift uppercut to his jaw with your elbow, kicking his feet from under him as you throw your leg over his body and wrap your arms around his neck. He tries to slash at you with the knife, cutting across your jacket sleeve. There is only a tingle across your arm that indicates broken skin but nothing more serious. That throws the man back though, and he doesn’t get a second chance to fight back before John throws the axe directly at his chest. The impact is strong enough to push his body into yours and you throw him aside, grimacing in annoyance.

Readjusting your jacket with a small huff, you shove your hands into your pockets to check that both boxes are still intact. Upon finding them, you bend down and rip your bloodied blade from the man’s hand, wiping it on his jacket before pocketing it, too. Steadying your breathing, you incline your head towards John who stares at you like you sprouted a second head.

“What?”

“You’ve gotten quicker.”

“You’re the one who once told me I have the potential to be faster than even you,” you remind him and step over the dead body. “I took your advice to heart.”

He’s still stronger and far, far more experienced than you. Not to mention a deadly marksman. Your speed is the biggest weapon you have against someone like him.

Aside from your poison.

For a second—just one—you entertain the idea of what exactly the outcome would be if you ever faced off.

Your eyes sweep over him, considering, before you dismiss the awkward tension between you and stalk past him.

He follows silently, recognising the very reluctant and fragile peace you’re offering right now. If only to help you get to where you need to go.

Everything is too fresh, raw, and you need time to process it all. A luxury you can’t afford right now.

The streets are still gushing with rainwater when you step out of the old building. You both scan the streets, cautious and tense, but there is no one in immediate sight, and you let John lead this time. You know where the theatre is but John seems to have some sort of shortcut in mind.

You feel his occasional glance in your direction, almost as if he’s checking if you’re still beside him, but don’t you acknowledge it.

You need more weapons. More poison. Desperately. But the nearest secure location you have is at least fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of the theatre. It seems like you have no choice but to put trust in John’s plan of using his ticket with the Ruska Roma. His past is still murky to you. He rarely shared anything about his life before Tarasov recruited him.

You only know that he was an orphan in one of the Ruska Roma clans.

John’s hurried footsteps suddenly halt, his body rotating to practically cover you from sight.

The blade is in your hand quicker than a breath and you catch a glimpse of smart-looking suits, a golden ring each—

John goes rigid at the sight of weapons.

You shove past him.

“_Aspetta_!” you call out loudly, raising your hand in a pacifying motion, stepping past John’s broad body. “What family do you belong to?”

Relief follows the recognition you glimpse on their guarded glares. The sight of you, at least, has brought you a window of opportunity.

“Salucci,” the shorter one answers stiffly, reluctantly.

A quiet breath escapes you, your heart beating fast but your mind races.

“Part of Cosa Nostra, no?” you point out, still in Italian, watching them closely. John is quiet but his presence is like dark, barely contained storm only a step behind you. “That means you are allied with Camorra.”

“You are Excommunicado,” the taller one snaps, his eyes narrowing on John. “No alliances will save you now.”

You huff a breath of reluctant agreement, bobbing your head in chagrined understanding. That much is true.

But the heavy, golden ring on your finger won’t have you accepting defeat now.

“Your families have been bound by blood and loyalty long before the Table was established.”

John’s stare burns holes in the back of your head but you don’t lower your guard.

The shorter man speaks first. “What right do you have to speak on behalf of our families, Vipress?”

Your trembling hand hangs in the air for a moment before you slowly turn it, revealing the Camorra head ring to them. It sits on your hand like a beacon, a crown, an order of indisputable authority and you see both men recognise it at once. Their composure falters at the sight of it and you scramble for any memory of Camorra’s words, power, influence.

You envision Giovanni and Gianna and Santino.

A family of nuclear power and control, twisted up and broken just as you often feel.

“As the current standing head of Camorra family, appointed by Santino D’Antonio, the last of the D’Antonio name, I ask that you honour that alliance,” you declare, cold and self-assured, and notice that your shaking hand steadies. “I ask that you turn around and walk away. Go and know that I will remember this kindness if you do. Or you can try and kill us and end up dead either by our hand or the hand by the Camorra’s Four. They have sworn their services to me until such time that Santino is fit enough to represent Camorra once again. What say you?”

Silence disturbed only by easing of the rain. Now nothing more than a drizzle. 

“It won’t be the first time our two families fought,” the taller one says, this time in English and his next words are full of disgust. “You are an _outsider_. Your word is not binding. You are nothing.”

Two voices hiss at that.

_Make them regret that._

And another; lower, full of authority, but no less chilly: _They are fools. They should be terrified of you._

Your lips press into a hard line. Behind you, John shifts, readying himself.

“It will be binding when my knife is in your throat, assuming it’s not my poison that does the job first,” you don’t raise your voice, you don’t need to. You channel something else, _someone_ else; a phantom you have not conjured up for a considerable length of time. “Honour the alliance or blood feuds will be the _least_ of your worries.”

A spark of unease—maybe even fear—and you find yourself relishing it. “_Honour_ _it_ or you will learn what happens when someone tries to wage war against Camorra while I’m in charge,” you state calmly and add an even softer, “Go in peace or you _will_ have blood.”

Your hand drops slowly, not out of fear but because you have nothing else to prove to them.

The shorter man lowers his pistol first and nods at his partner to do the same.

The second man follows, reluctant.

The first man’s expression lacks warmth but he nods his head, a polite acknowledgement. “We may have been bound by old loyalties, signora vipera, but others will not be.”

You say nothing. Instead, you repeat a motion you’ve seen Giovanni do multiple times in the past, and press the hand with Camorra ring over your heart, offering them the tiniest of nods.

A sign of favour as you always understood it. Giovanni rarely gave them out and both men seem caught off guard by it as they shuffle backwards and towards their car. They get inside and the car crawls away in reverse. 

You keep your eyes on it, ignoring John’s attentive stare on you. The surprise you feel radiating from him even if he doesn’t voice it.

Acting boss of Camorra.

_The_ Camorra.

Yet it does not feel like a burden. Doesn’t even feel unearned.

_Power suits you, cara mia,_ a memory of Santino whispers against your ear—now seemingly from a lifetime ago. Back during the blood feud with Albanians years ago. 

A gunshot rips through the air, a bullet whistling past your head as you fall back. You throw yourself to the side, rolling across the floor, and John hurls himself in the opposite direction.

More shots follow but it doesn’t come from the direction of the car. It’s someone from the other side of the street, sitting on a motorcycle and you glare in their direction.

Bullets separate you and John, and you know you can’t stay in your spot unless you want to be riddled with lead.

“I’ll meet you there!”

John’s expression hardens, indicting he heard you. His mouth parts and he moves as if to cut the distance between you but more bullets hit the ground and he drops back. His expression is deadly calm and that focused lethality will be wielded to a deadly result soon.

“Meet me there!”

Splitting up is the last thing he wants to do, you can tell as much from the strain on his face, but you don’t have much of a choice. Rising from your crouch, you prepare yourself for a sprint under the cover of the containers littering the area. Divide their attention.

You don’t bother with goodbyes.

You lock your muscles, draw a deep breath, steady yourself, and then you _sprint_. 

_Same mistakes, same path_, a gentle voice reminds you but you ignore it.

* * *

“You’re late.”

“What happened?”

You shrug carelessly, pushing yourself away from the building, and scan the street behind him.

John looks no less dishevelled than you likely do. His still-damp hair is splattered to his forehead and new additional cuts are visible on his face.

“Bodies,” you intone blankly and look him up and down before demanding a monotonous, “You?”

There’s a slight limp to his gait as he steps closer, grunting a dispassionate, “Bodies.” 

Getting here created six additional casualties. All mercifully unknown to you and it’s a small relief. You’re not quite sure how you would handle facing against someone you know or have a connection to. You don’t want to think about what being made Excommunicado might reveal.

John strides towards the receptionist booth, and the lady gives him the exact same, dry response she did you, “We’re closed.”

But John is not a man to be deterred easily. He grabs something—a medallion of beads and a silver crucifix—from his pocket and slams it against the glass with enough force to rattle it.

In under a minute the doors to the theatre swing open and a guard comes to greet you. You’re ushered inside under tense but non-hostile silence. John falls in step beside you, and neither of you lowers your guard despite the fact that this might be the closest he’s come to home in years.

The guards examine you both closely when you come to a stand before a table, a soft piano tune filling the otherwise quiet space. More heavily tattooed and armed men sit behind it. At least a dozen eyes drill into you. Befitting security for a higher up on the New York food chain.

John places his medallion on the table and starts removing everything in his pockets without prompting. A standard procedure for him.

You pretend you don’t see the silver viper ring he places on the table.

“Your weapons.”

That gets directed straight at you.

Of course.

No meeting the Director with weapons on your person.

You’ve only heard stories about the woman who runs the Ruska Roma in New York. 

Formidable individual if the stories are anything to go by.

John complies, removing his belt, though the cautious air around him doesn’t drop. You follow his lead, removing your blade and placing it on the immaculate tablecloth, except even more reluctant.

“Remove everything, Vipress,” one of the men grumbles in Russian. “We know your tricks.”

Your jaw clenches subtly and you become very, very aware of the two boxes nested inside your jacket pockets. Your two aces. The idea of them being in anyone’s hands but your own or select few you do trust coils your stomach.

Your chin tips upwards and you refuse to move, staring down at them defiantly.

The atmosphere thickens with tension.

John glances at you over his shoulder, his dark eyes guarded but you see a spark of pleading there. “_V_.”

You don’t move for another few, uneasy moments before finally burying your hands in your pockets and removing the twin boxes. Placing them carefully on the table, you cast a hard, warning look at the men before straightening. An unspoken warning.

With that, the tension eases a few notches and the guard gives the go-ahead for you to proceed.

John takes the lead, you beside him, as you both enter the dark auditorium. It’s empty with a lone ballerina practising on stage and a hunched back of a sitting woman visible in the distance. It surprises you when John hesitates, taking the sight in. He feels your brief glance in his direction and turns towards you.

A thousand things burn behind his eyes but he doesn’t say anything, choosing to instead begin the trek towards the spot the woman is sitting.

The ballerina on stage slips up, falling on the floor with a thud and in the empty, grand space the fall seems to echo. A dark, painful sound of yet another failure.

The dark-haired woman—the Director—barks something at her in Russian that you’re too distracted to register. The girl stands up, shaking and unsteady, as if she’s done this a thousand times before. It takes strength to straighten into a picture of perfect elegance and begin the dance anew. Your eyes linger on that poise and control, almost envious of beauty the ballerina is able to create with nothing but sheer will. That dedication to go on you _can_ and _will_ admire in just about anyone.

The Director, you come to learn from just one glimpse, is a woman of stern beauty. Dark red lips, midnight black hair, and a posture of a female who demands respect. The amount of jewellery she wears is only an indicator of her wealth and status. Proud and effortlessly in control of those around her. 

John, much to your mute shock, lowers himself to the ground. A humbling of likes you have never seen from him before. Head bowed and medallion wrapped around his hand, he appears more like a boy seeking repentance than a man who is feared by all.

The sight of him like this completely stops you in your tracks.

Director barely spares him a glance, her dark eyes cool, dismissive. “_Jardani_,” she greets, her voice and accent smooth but just as cold as you expected it to be. “Why have you come home? And brought a spare, too,” she adds, her attention coming to rest on you briefly.

Her stare is fierce enough to make you feel like a misbehaving child who has inconvenienced her by breathing despite the fact that you’ve never met her before.

John thinks for a beat and then extends his hand with the medallion still wrapped around his digits. Apparently the only response he can offer.

The Director looks unmoved, one eyebrow arching almost mockingly. “You present this to me like an answer.”

“I still have my ticket.”

His ticket. Ticket back home. The one place where he might be able to escape back to and start a new life. His homeland of Belarus.

But he must bury this dream, too.

He made sure of that himself.

The Director makes a small sound at the back of her throat, looking him up and down.

“After all the havoc you have wrought over these last few weeks do you truly believe your ticket is still valid?” she demands, her voice thin with poorly veiled bafflement. “You are too quick to forget that Ruska Roma is bound to the High Table and the Table stands above _all_.”

As if either of you could ever forget. Behind John, the ballerina keeps dancing and the music keeps playing.

The Director shakes her head slightly, frowning in disapproval as she stares down at the man before her.

“So this is how you honour me?” she bites out, every bit the disappointed guardian. “By inviting death into my home and bringing me a snake,” she pauses, her scowl easing, and simply takes him in for a moment. A brief shake of her head follows. “Oh, Jardani, _look_ at you. What has become of you?”

What indeed.

You don’t look at him. From the corner of your eye, you still see how his head lowers though. Perhaps he, too, is wondering that same exact thing.

But when his head lifts, it’s not John that fills the space between you.

A low growl of Russian slips through his lips, a declaration and a demand all at once, and he finishes with a forceful, “You are _bound_ and I am _owed_.”

The older woman regards him impassively, not even a twitch in her expression. You admire her composure. Not many can deal with John with as much poise as she is.

“_Enough_, Rooney,” she snaps—so loudly and so suddenly—that if it hadn’t been for years of dealing with sudden, jarring sounds you might have jumped. Behind John, the ballerina falls to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The Director rises sharply, scowling. “_With me_. The snake stays.”

It’s public knowledge that you speak Russian and yet—

John rises smoothly but his expression is steely. He replies in Russian, too, something colder lingering in his tone, “She’s coming.”

The Director arches one of her eyebrows, her blood-red lips thinning further with silent disapproval. You get the impression she’s not used to being challenged. 

“You do not get to make demands, Jardani.”

A warning and a reminder of how much of a thin ice he is on.

But it’s not John she’s talking to. The barely man before you doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink. Iron and ice and something dark stares back at the Director. He seems to expand. Filling the air with something frightening. You’ve seen a great many—men and women alike—balk under that suffocating regard. 

“She’s coming with me.”

As simple as that.

The Director folds her arms over her chest, pulling her scarlet shawl closer over her body.

“They could kill me for simply talking with you,” she points out, her voice dropping to cutting whisper. “And you truly expect me to risk even more for a brief fancy of yours?”

Brief fancy.

So that’s what you’re known as around here. John Wick’s _brief fancy_.

“I’m right _here_.”

The Director slides her keen gaze your way, her chin tilting as she looks you up and down.

“Yes, you are. The Russian’s Viper,” she states blandly, and you hear the judgement there. “I’ve heard much about you. Reality, however, is often disappointing.”

It’s a bait to get a reaction. She’s taking count of your character and trying to judge what will break your composure first.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit what she thinks of you. What any of them do.

“With all due respect, Director,” you begin flatly. “You either help us or I walk out of that door now. I don’t have time to waste, and I’m certainly not going to grovel if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

This time John doesn’t interject. He lingers like a dark phantom beside you; silent but terrible. For the first time since you walked into the auditorium, you see realisation on her face. Of who exactly she’s facing against. 

She scoffs, staring you both down, resolute.

“You are not at your hotel where Winston’s favour guards you, girl,” she says coolly, her mouth a stern, harsh line of red. “Your weapons and poison would have been removed upon entry,” she notes, and adds an even stiffer, “Do not take that tone with me.” 

“I still have my hands.”

It slips out easily and once upon a time you never would have dared to even dream of saying something like that. Not to someone of her power.

You don’t feel afraid though.

You just feel determined.

“V.”

You ignore John, not dropping your stare. Whatever sentimental connection they share is of little interest to you.

Her inky gaze feels like blades slashing across your skin. She looks you up and down again, and the silent battle continues for several seconds before she finally speaks, “They told me you were smart but I do not see it,” she says, her voice dry. “You won’t leave this building alive.”

You venture a step forward and then another. You like her more with every step you take because she doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch. She holds her ground and your respect for her only grows.

Something about the gleam in her eyes tells you that it might be feeling shared for the exact opposite reason. Because you are willing to take that risk.

_You’re being reckless_, Winston warns beside you.

_Make her respect you_, another voice shoots back at once.

“What I am right now is someone who has nothing to lose,” you tell her softly. Your throat aches and you bottle away the brutal memory of a gunshot and blood, _his blood_— “So, with _respect_, should I just go now?”

The Director offers you a mirthless smile, looking away from you and towards John who still stands unmoving behind you.

“Hurry it up.”

She casts one last, shrewd glance your way before she turns, briskly walking away. You exhale, too. Steady yourself.

John halts beside you but you don’t look towards him. Instead, you move after the woman ahead. Walking past, you briefly glance towards the stage where the ballerina still sits curled up on the wooden floor. Her expression is crestfallen, cautious.

You can’t help but wonder how she ended up here. What her life story is. If she, too, knows hunger like you do. If you talked with her, would you find comfort in another jaded soul?

Looking away, you follow the Director.

The woman stays silent until you step backstage. She slams the door with enough force that betrays her irritation, her steps hurried but firm. Self-reassured.

Despite her harshness, you do find yourself liking her.

“_Owed_,” she repeats suddenly. “You are owned nothing, Jardani.”

John doesn’t reply and stepping backstage feels like stepping back in time. The scene that greets you—practising ballerinas and wrestling matches—gives you an odd sense of nostalgia. John used to take you to old gyms, too. Together you used to spar for hours. Skin slick with sweat and bodies aching. There was always a grin on your face though.

Once upon a time, he made you feel alive even if your life was nothing but struggles and pain.

“Life is suffering.”

Your attention turns to the austere woman before she gestures with her head for you both to follow her. Two guards linger behind you, and it’s an effort to not snap at them whenever they come just a bit too close behind you.

Seeing young men wresting on safety mats up close somehow hits harder. You pick apart the core elements of their techniques as you stroll past. Can see too many similarities to John’s style—even echoes of your own, all taught by the man beside you. Over the years you’ve learned to separate yourself from his technique. Learned that there were too many weaknesses to exploit when physically you were so different. However, seeing all of this still evokes an unexpected sting of emotions.

A puppy though. The Director is wrong to assume that this is all for a puppy. It’s about so much more than that. A history she is clearly unaware of.

The dark-haired woman mostly ignores you as she converses with John in short, curt sentences but you hardly let it affect you. You’re used to silently shadowing Tarasov’s steps. Being unseen is what you excel at. Your ego is also not _that_ fragile if she’s hopeful for a reaction.

The Director leads you two into her private office. If one can even call it that. It’s a large but barren space. An old, wooden desk sits in the middle of it with a fire crackling on the other side of the wall. Few classical paintings litter the vast, dark space and some you recognise at once. All those museum and gallery visits with Santino—

You clamp the thought down immediately. Lock it tight.

Your teeth click in an attempt to control your emotions, and you barely hear the Director’s brisk “sit” to John.

There is no second chair.

Ignoring that, you stand on his right, your arms loose at your sides. The older woman doesn’t offer you a seat and you don’t ask for one.

This, clearly, is to be a bargaining between her and John only.

“The truth is,” she begins, casting her eyes over you both. Surprisingly. “I can’t help you even if I wanted to. The High Table wants your life. You can’t fight against them. Can’t outrun them. You could go to the dark, but they are there, too.”

John considers her words but doesn’t disagree with them. His position is even worse than your own. A hefty bounty sits on his head.

But...

“No,” you say quietly, and the Director looks towards you. “There is something—_someone_—who stands even above them.”

For the first time since you came here, you see a crack in her demeanour. An unease and a concern. She wipes them quickly but you still notice them. By the way John shifts slightly in his seat, you know he has as well.

“You do not know what you speak of,” she murmurs, her voice dropping as she stares at you, unblinking. “_His_ attention is not something you should ever wish to invite your way.”

“I have in the past.”

She leans back in her chair, a glimmer of surprise there. The Director blinks, then, and looks at you through different eyes. _Knowing_ eyes.

“So this is your plan, then?” she demands sternly. “You seek to meet him?”

“We seek passage,” John confirms, glancing up at you and you meet his stare briefly. “To Casablanca.”

The woman scoffs, peering at you both like she’s just realised that you’re both insane. “_The path to paradise begins in hell._”

John’s expression tightens at her jovial voice, and he leans forward suddenly, sliding his arm across the table so she is once again faced with his medallion. Her expression tightens at the reminder. Her raven hair glows in the muted light the fire casts while she silently ponders her next move.

“So be it,” she voices at last, coolly indifferent. “What about the snake?”

John’s expression doesn’t waver. “She’s with me.”

The Director lets loose a soft sigh and shakes her head. “The ticket is for you, Jardani, and you alone. If you wish to waste it, _so be it_. She, however, is not of our blood, so I owe her nothing.”

She’s not wrong.

You don’t belong anywhere.

Your fingers tighten into fists, hidden by the folds of your coat, and it’s then that you feel it.

The Camorra ring.

_I will never abandon you._

You savour the memory, pull it close, and hold it to your heart.

“A Marker, then,” John’s voice cracks through your senses and you freeze. “From me to you.”

Something ices over in your heart. A sickening weight forming in the pit of your stomach.

“No.”

His eyes lift to you. They’re softer, lighter in the glow of the fire. “Let me do this,” he says gently, sadly. “Let me try and make this right.”

You almost punch him. “_No_,” you snap, gnashing your teeth as you exhale forcefully. “No more debts. No more favours in my name. _Enough_. This is what got us all here in the first place. Oaths and egos and unwillingness to simply listen. I will not have you bound to another Marker for me. Never again.”

John stares up at you, his expression gentler then it was moments ago.

He seems to have no response to your declaration.

It’s the Director that breaks the tense hush that has fallen over you. “You speak for Camorra now, do you not?”

Your head snaps in her direction. Her stare is calculating and you bristle. “What of it? I’m not sworn in if you’re hoping for some sort of negotiation. I don’t have that right.”

You suppose it shouldn’t surprise you that she knows, either. News like that spreads quickly. For it to be effective Hector would have had to call it in the moment you left the Continental and even then it didn’t stop everyone.

The Director’s eyes narrow, her fingers tapping against the wooden table once. “I will grant you passage,” she states frankly. “But I should hope that one day you will remember this for the kindness that it is. You have Santino D’Antonio’s heart. That means you as good as have Camorra. Ring or no.”

Her deliberate words seem to suck the air right out of the room. The absence left behind is near deafening.

Your gut coils, a buzz in your veins.

_He loves you._

“Fine,” you breathe out, choked. “I will remember this kindness.”

She nods once, her expression sly, and holds out her hand to John. “If this is what you truly desire,” she says lightly. “But know that if you hand it in, I _will_ tear it.”

It takes some time before John finally moves, untangling the medallion and presenting it to her. She still wears that same, derisive expression as she rips the medallion apart and John staggers to his feet. You take a step back, confused, watching as he shrugs off his suit jacket. He extends his hand towards you and your eyes narrow.

“John?”

He doesn’t reply, unbuttoning his shirt as one of the guards takes the metal cross ripped off the medallion, heating it over the open flame.

Your stomach sinks. Swallowing, you take another step back, giving him the space to turn the chair around and sit down on it, pulling his shirt back and exposing his back.

The tattoos on his skin are another call from the past.

There is a second in which the world seems to hang suspended before—

The metal scorches into his skin, into his tattoos, and John grunts in pain. His teeth grind together, his dark hair falling into his eyes but he lets little else slip. As if dissatisfied with the lack of reaction the guard digs the poker even deeper. The stench of burned flesh finally reaches you and you try not to gag. It lasts another handful of seconds before the guard pulls back. John remains upright though you can see the quiver in his body.

“With this, your ticket is torn,” the Director reminds him and you can’t quite read the inflection in her words. “You can never come home again.”

John says nothing, shakily lifting his head to look her way.

Director sneers and rises to her feet abruptly. “Take them to the lifeboat,” she orders sharply and cuts a look your way. “Do not forget your words, _Lady Camorra_.”

It’s another mockery and nothing more than that but you don’t fail to notice how John’s jaw clenches at those words.

The door behind you slams shut and then quietness settles over the room.

The guard waits to the side while John shrugs his clothes back on, and you ignore the faint grimace creasing his features. His jacket is the last to go and you hand it to him wordlessly.

The guard clears his throat before you can exchange any words, however, and you step past the older man, hearing him behind you.

The trip doesn’t take long. It’s also mercifully accident-free as well which makes a nice reprieve from the chaos that has ensued over the last 48 hours.

The lifeboat, the guard explains roughly, will take them to a larger vessel.

He hands your belongings back to you at the docks and your relief is likely palpable. Your fingers tremble around the twin boxes, and you place them back in your coat where they belong. Secure and tucked away.

Right now, the safest way to get to Casablanca is over water. It does, however, mean sailing the ocean. Which will take time.

Time alone with your thoughts is the last thing you want right now.

_Is he still alive?_

Your fingers tap against your thigh repeatedly.

“Tell me.”

Blinking, you look towards John who sits slumped opposite to you. His back will hurt for a while. At least with how hot the metal was, it should have cauterised the wound. It will still mean a far less comfortable journey for him.

“Tell you what?”

You’re not particularly in a mood for chitchat with him.

You’re out here due to necessity, not choice. You have little to say to a man who nearly killed your friends less than a day ago.

John stretches his long legs out, grunting slightly in pain when his back settles against the cool metal behind him.

“About the Elder,” he broaches, his voice low, scratchy with both exhaustion and pain. “How do you know him?”

_Know him._

That’s not exactly the term you would use to describe it.

The Elder.

Something in your veins burns. A scratch of memories that you’ve tried to smother for a long time now.

John’s stare is expectant. Heavy.

Maybe a distraction would be good. You don’t have to tell him everything.

“Roughly six months after your wedding,” you start, your voice cracking, and then stop. Clearing your throat, you force your voice to remain steady, “I did a job at Chicago after which I was summoned by him.”

His brows knit.

“Summoned?”

You lick your dry lips while you mull over your boiling thoughts, reluctant to say more.

“It’s a long story.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “We have time.”

Your attentions settles on him, and you examine him closely. No one but Winston—and to some degree Charon—know about the full extent of what really happened during those long months in the desert.

And even then, some things—some memories—you haven’t shared with anyone.

Being forced to recall it now, after you worked so hard to shake that connection off, unsettles you more than you would care to admit.

You walked this path once before.

Sighing, you close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. When you open them again, John is still waiting patiently, agog.

You part your lips, skimming your fingertips over the ruby ring on your hand, and begin your tale.

* * *

**—BEFORE.**

**.**

The first thing you notice is the heat.

It’s near suffocating though it lacks the humidity you associate with countries you’re used to frequenting.

This is something else—something you haven’t encountered before.

A bag gets pulled from over your head, and your eyes squeeze shut at the bright flare of light that blinds you. Squinting, you try to blink the dark spots from your sight and focus on the man before you.

He had introduced himself back at the Continental as Rafik. Patient and soft-spoken, he had told you all you needed to know to end up here.

A summoning by the Elder.

An individual who supposedly stands above the High Table.

You’ve only heard stories of this man; a few terrified, sometimes even joking, whispers.

The Elder is more of a boogeyman than even John is.

You had half a thought to refuse Rafik and his companion Saad. Except the tone of their explanation made one thing abundantly clear: either you are to come willingly or you will be “encouraged” to come.

That was followed by fear. Not because you doubted you could kill these men before they took you. You could. But because their presence at the Continental must have meant that what happened at Chicago slipped through the cracks after all.

You found an odd sense of relief that they made no mention of Santino being taken, though.

But what other reason would a man who supposedly stands _above_ the twelve most powerful crime powerhouses in the world want to see you?

_You_.

Viggo Tarasov’s deadly little puppet.

Rafik squats before you, the bag previously over your head now in his hand, as he observes you.

You’re inside a makeshift tent. Open and airy. Wind flutters across the expensive, beautifully sown cashmere and silk—a stunning display of colour and patterns—and beyond it lays nothing but golden dunes as far as the eye can see.

You shift your body on the maroon carpet, noting your weapons that have not been removed.

“I would like to apologise for the secrecy,” Rafik speaks, his voice soft. “The Elder, however, values his privacy. And until such time he knows you can be trusted, this is a necessary precaution.”

“Why am I here?”

Because they said you have been summoned. But not the reason for the said summoning.

If this is to be a punishment, you rather get it over with.

You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Winston and Charon.

You…

You’re not quite sure why that bothers you quite so much but it _does_.

Controlling your frown, you rotate your limbs slowly again, staring at the man before you. Despite Rafik’s reassurances that they hold no malicious intent, you know better than to trust strangers who implied that you didn’t have a choice in coming here.

“You are here because your particular skillset has piqued the Elder’s interest.”

That gives you a pause.

_Skillset_.

The relief is so immense that you almost allow yourself to slump over. The silent dread you’ve tried to control since Rafik told you about the summoning gradually fading.

You’ve been so convinced that this was about punishment for Chicago. About someone figuring out that you are responsible for the chaos unleashed through the Black Dragon’s ranks.

Your eyes pointedly drag around the tent, noting few other men all dressed in loose, billowing robes. Fitting attire for desert life. All the faces staring back at you are varying shades of golden or brown but they don’t appear hostile. Just calm. Observant.

Few things don’t fail to escape your notice though.

“Where is this Elder, then?”

Rafik’s head tilts slightly and he moves to stand. “It is not so simple, (Name),” he says and moves towards the small table standing not too far away from you. You watch every shift of his body, your senses straining to keep aware of other men, too. “You must first earn the right to meet him. He would like to offer you a position of honour but it is reliant on you proving yourself worthy of it.”

Your eyes narrow, a slow exhale slipping free.

“How do you know my name?” you ask, keeping your voice as calm as his own soothing lull. “And what makes you think I care for his approval?”

A gamble. But you have to know if they can be pushed. Where exactly you stand if this is not punishment after all.

For a moment Rafik simply gazes at you, his dark eyes inscrutable. His robes are less extravagant than those of other men. Fewer layers and more compact. Though the colour is just a few shades paler than the golden sand around you. 

“The Elder knows a great many things about you,” he answers as if that should explain everything. “Hence, I know these things. As for his approval, it could set you free.”

Something flutters in your chest at those words. You control your expression, not letting your eagerness or confusion slip. Instead, you simply watch the man before calmly, expectant.

A few minutes pass like this. No one so much as shifts.

Your body is still sore from Chicago. Muscles worn and frail. Your eyes skip over the men inside the tent again. They’re far enough that you could take most of them out before they likely got too close. 

“So I’m a prisoner here until I earn the favour of this man?”

An uncomfortable, leaden sort of silence greets your blunt question.

Rafik’s head tilts in your direction and he picks up the small table easily, walking back towards you.

There is a curious light in his eyes as he examines you. You have no doubt that every word you speak will be reported back to this mysterious leader later. Judged and picked apart piece by piece.

You hate the uneasy roll of your stomach at that thought.

Perhaps you’re being too foolish and hasty to test them like this.

A man so powerful he stands above the Table. _Above_ it. What kind of power does this Elder wield to do something like that? How does he even do it?

“No. Never,” Rafik rebukes easily, almost disappointed. “He believes in free will.”

You suppress a snarky remark at that.

“No babies—girls or boys, or children in general,” you point out as he places the small table before you, seating himself down on the other side of it. You watch him and he watches you. “No women, either. I’m not naive.”

Something flickers in that dark gaze again and he hums quietly. Wind flutters his fitted robes and you try to ignore how your own attire—suitable for the nippy New York winters but little else—is making you almost boil alive where you’re sitting.

“How did you know?”

A quiet, curious question. He doesn’t deny it though.

“I might have had a bag over my head but I still have ears.”

You listened to every sound as you were marched here to this tent. The soft murmurs and the animals and the wind and your shoes sinking into the sand.

“You do not have to fret,” he says with a twitch of his mouth that implies wry amusement. “You are the Elder’s honoured guest. No one will harm you here.”

Given different circumstances, you might have believed him. He has a demeanour of a man who is easy to trust. Some sort of magnetism that makes you feel pinned down by his unfaltering regard.

“You said he’s interested in my skillset,” you begin after a deliberate pause, still staring at him. “You mean the poison, don’t you?”

Your most powerful and destructive weapon.

There is a memory of Rafael, choking and bleeding, but you shake it away at once. You’re glad that Kishi is nowhere in sight; a small miracle but one you are immensely grateful for. Right now, you need to tread carefully and without distractions.

“Yes. The Elder is a man of power but he cannot do all himself,” Rafik responds and takes one of the four cups sitting on the table. A small brown thing with a pretty pattern curling around it. Another three cups remain untouched; one green, another blue, and last red. “As such, he has disciples who help him and council him. Saad, you have already met. Then there's me and one other. There are four positions in total but the fourth has never been filled before.”

_Interesting_.

So he’s nothing more than a glorified secretary to the most powerful man in the world then.

“Why?”

He doesn’t drop his stare as he raises the cup to his lips.

“Because no one suitable enough has been found to fill it,” he answers simply, like it should be obvious, and his words might have been insulting if it wasn’t for the gentleness of his accent. “He was, however, hoping that you would be a suitable candidate.”

Candidate.

Implying a relation unlike the one between you and Tarasov. 

You breathe slowly, feeling the dry air fill your lungs as you try to gather yourself.

Every word spoken feels like some sort of battle, a test even, and you wonder what exactly this is all building up to. You’re likely too exhausted for anything physical but your mind can keep up, if only for now.

“No offence to you or your master but what makes you think I want this?” you wonder carefully, purposely infusing stiff politeness into your words. “What’s stopping me from standing up and walking away right now?”

You never would. You’re not stupid. Not without careful planning and preparation. Deserts are some of the deadliest terrains in the world for a reason. Especially when one is ill-prepared and hadn’t had the time to adapt to the climate. 

“You are free to leave whenever you please,” Rafik says bluntly, a single eyebrow rising. Definitely disappointed at that suggestion. “I should warn that there is nothing but sand for hundreds of miles in either direction, however. You will be dead within two days, if not less.”

You make a small noise at the back of your throat at that, looking around once again.

The tickle of wind at the back of your neck is a small mercy. It’s sweltering. 

“So I _am_ a prisoner.”

As gentle and as quiet as his own suggestion.

Rafik raises the cup to his mouth again, slower this time. His eyes watch you keenly over the rim though. It’s then that become aware of the fact that neither of you has looked away once from the other. 

“The Elder is willing to offer you a position in his ranks,” he says calmly after a pause. He lowers the cup to his lap where his legs are neatly folded. Experienced and relaxed. He trains and likely meditates, too. He knows how to control his body. There is strength there. His voice might be soft but you don’t doubt he can hold his own. Though the far bigger threat is that razor-sharp edge to his regard. He’s _smart_. You can tell. “If you impress, if you _succeed_, then your debt to the man known as Viggo Tarasov will be wiped clean. He will never be able to touch you again. You will outrank him, in fact.”

Your heart seizes at that.

Your debt wiped away.

_Free_.

You could—

Biting one side of your cheek, you fold your fingers into loose fists, forcing yourself back to reality. 

Eyes narrowed, you mutter a knowing, “But I will be serving the will of the Elder which, I wager a guess, means that I will never be a part of the underground in the traditional sense again.”

Rafik inclines his head in a silent nod.

“What happens if I still refuse?” you finally ask, your words low, tense. “Will you kill me?”

His index finger traces the rim of the cup, a gesture almost striking you as thoughtful, and his eyes narrow.

“No, killing you would be a waste of great talent,” he says and nods towards the cups. “The choice will be yours. Drink.”

At first, you don’t move, still peering at him before you eventually force yourself to look down at the cups.

“What is it?”

They all look innocent enough. But you suspect it’s not that simple.

All three cups hold liquid inside and Rafik raises his cup once more, tranquil as before, but his eyes remain sharp.

“A choice,” he intones quietly, and his lips press together while he cradles the cup between his palms, leaning closer. “The Elder believes that a bargain can always be struck between those willing to compromise. So I represent you with this offer: you will stay here for six months, you will learn, you will train, you will be forged and tested.”

A lump forms in your throat and you feel the tension between your shoulder blades return, almost a distant ache.

“And then?”

“If in six months time you still wish to leave you can.”

As if it’s ever that simple.

“_Just like that?_”

You don’t even bother masking the sceptic bite to your words.

For a moment, if you didn’t know any better, you would say Rafik looks amused. He hides it well though, nothing more than a glimmer you spot only because you’re watching him so closely.

“Just like that,” he echoes, unperturbed.

The other men don’t so much as move or shift in their spots. They feel more like sentinels than men. Rafik simply waits for your countermove. He doesn’t appear irritated by your questions or doubts though, and that says more than words ever could and you wonder if he realises that.

You examine him just as intently, trying to weight the honestly of his words. “All this trouble to get me here and then I can just leave?”

His fingers still.

They’re long and his hands are strong, even a touch elegant. For a moment it makes you think of Santino, and you have to stop yourself from shaking your head to clear the image.

“You do not believe me?”

The question is not angry, but it’s not happy, either.

What an odd man, you can’t help but think. It’s like you can read him and not read him at all at the same time. But something about this back-and-forth, about the knowing expression he sports, that forces your next question. 

“Why should I believe a stranger?”

Rafik lowers his head in consideration, accepting your valid suspicion and lifts the cup again. You must make an odd sight. There is no doubt in your mind that you look like a tightly coiled snake, your expression distrustful and gaze hard, ready to strike. Rafik is tranquil. Steady. But there is _something_. 

“Because the Elder does not believe in forced loyalty,” his words bring you out of thought and you feel yourself frown. “It would only breed resentment. He believes that six months will be enough time for you to see.”

Slanting your head to one side, you bite out a cool, “To see _what_?”

His reply is no less tart. “That you are meant to become _more_. That your place is here.”

Just how unlucky can you get?

Though you did have it coming, you have to admit.

After the Hunt—after all you did to hurt those who tried to hurt you—your name and all the terrible things you are capable of ripped through the underworld like wildfire. An effort to step out of John’s shadow and keep yourself alive. But it was only possible due to Santino and Camorra.

If he didn’t find you when he did…

Still, what you did caught plenty of attention. You simply didn’t realise till now just how _much_.

“The Elder sure sounds confident.”

It’s a light statement, a bait.

Rafik doesn’t bite though—too smart just like you first suspected, but he does gesture towards the small table separating you again.

“Before you are three cups,” he begins mildly but something about that gleam in his eyes makes you sit up and focus in a way you haven’t in a long while. “One of them contains tea. The other two will kill you in less than five minutes. The only difference will be how much pain you will experience before it ends. A test of your skill.”

A slight, cold smile twists your lips. “And if I refuse to play?”

He looks like he expected that question. He almost looks pleased by it. 

“You are free to refuse,” he replies easily, his tone placid. “But dehydration has already started to set in. You will not last very long before you are forced to make a decision if you wish to live.”

The smile on your face remains, sharpening. “What a warm welcome from your master.”

He doesn’t react to this taunt, either.

For a long, tense moment you simply peer at each other, seizing the other up.

Rotating your left shoulder and then neck, you reach for the green cup and lift it to your lips, taking a large mouthful.

A flare of surprise in that dark gaze but it’s gone in seconds. “That was a confident move.”

You drown the strong tasting tea in the cup in another few mouthfuls, licking your lips before shooting a calculating look his way. “The only cup with any poison in it is in your hands. You keep lifting it to your mouth but haven’t taken a single sip of it. You just wanted to see if I would panic. Next time, at least make it a challenge for me.”

You lower the cup back onto the table with a hum. “Thyme, mint, lemongrass, geranium, sage, verbena and _hmm_ wormwood. _Berber_ tea. Exquisite if well made. Tell your master thank you for his hospitality.” 

Rafik’s expression is as serene as before but something churns behind that calm now.

You give him a polite smile. “Where am I staying?”

**.**

**.**

Winston once told you that there is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. It’s very easy to slip from one to another without noticing.

Your little show with Rafik was admittedly both.

You wanted to see how he—and by extension this Elder—would respond.

The said response was unusually anticlimactic, however. You were shown to your tent and told that you will get several days to get used to the climate and settle in before your lessons are to begin.

The last thing you wanted to do was spend six months stuck in a desert god knows where, but you are also smart enough to realise that it’s much easier and preferable to play along.

For _now_.

Or at least until the uproar about Chicago dies down. Until the suspicion fades.

It’s not like you have much of a choice.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re _curious_.

You’ve never heard of anyone meeting the Elder before—much less spending time with his tribe. As a guest of honour of all things, too.

You’ve been watching the men around the camp like a hawk over these last several days, waiting for anyone to so much as look at you funny.

But there has been none of that.

The men mostly keep to themselves and their duties. It’s not quite like being ignored—there are polite nods and greetings every morning and evening—but they don’t exactly chitchat. Your Arabic is poor at best and it’s hard to tell how many of them actually understand or speak English. So even though you’re not sure what their orders are in regards to you, the ever-present instinct forces you to never lower your guard around them. Despite the lack of hostility you’ve received, it’s still startlingly clear that you are an outsider to them.

But there _is_ a routine here. Routine and order.

Desert life is a harsh one. It’s waking long before the sun has risen and starting chores before the heat gets too overwhelming. Everyone here has a job to do: from food preparation to taking care of the animals to cleaning and even sewing. No one is excluded, and there is an odd sense of unity to be found in the soft murmurs as the men work. There is an ever-present togetherness about this place that admittedly surprises you.

As per their culture, all work is paused for prayer at least five times a day.

You keep a respectful distance when that happens. The last thing you want is to disturb anyone during an act that is clearly of great importance to them. 

During the first three days, you mostly linger in your tent, only coming out for meals and general exercise. Your body is still healing and your weakness has wrapped around your throat like Boutin’s bony fingers had.

You hate being incapable. You hate yourself even more for allowing yourself to slip this much. Building yourself up takes twice as long as falling apart does, and you know that it will take substantial effort to get back to your old form.

Your nights are still haunted as well.

It takes you hours to fall asleep, and even when you do, nightmares are quick to chase you out of slumber. You stopped sleeping inside your tent after the first night.

Desert life, you have also come to find, fluctuates between scorching heat during the days and freezing nights once the sun sets. But you welcome it—like it even.

There is also the matter of the night sky.

It is _beyond_ breathtaking. You have never observed stars so bright anywhere else before. So many of them are visible each night, it feels like you could reach out and sink your fingers into the very fabric of that inky blackness and tug them all loose. Whenever you awake from feverish nightmares with Kishi’s laugh nipping at your senses, it’s the stars and the coldness of the night air that lulls you and eases your frightened mind.

You’re no longer stuck underground when all of eternity seems to stretch above you.

So for the last two nights, you have found yourself wrapped in a camel fur blanket, sleeping by the fire in the middle of the camp. The fire doesn’t go out all night and you take full advantage of that.

Last night Kishi was joined by Boutin and Rafael, too, which filled your wakeful hours with a certain green-eyed heir.

Which is…surprising.

John you’re used to having inside your head. His spectre is a constant you rely on almost every day. Santino has never quite managed to warm his way in before. Not with John taking up all the space there but…

But something _has_ changed. You know it has.

It’s only been little over a week since Chicago yet it feels like years have passed.

And Santino D’Antonio has left his mark without even realising it.

A part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows where you are, if he has noticed your absence—if he even will—and if he does, if he will care.

Will he search for you?

Will _Tarasov_?

“He likes you.”

Your fingers still against the soft, warm nose of the camel before you and you ignore the heated, wet huff of breath against your palm.

“Animals know loyalty,” you say, your words a touch dull but still respectful, even though you don’t turn to face the man behind you. “Humans tend to be lacking in that field.”

Rafik comes to stand beside you, stretching his arm to touch the animal’s nose as well. The camel remains laying in his spot, still munching, and you ignore the tickle of evening breeze against the back of your neck. The sun has almost set and the camp is bustling with preparations for dinner. It’s hardly a grand affair but the food is delicious all the same even though it lacks the refinement you've gotten used to in Santino’s presence.

“Until their hunter instincts kick in and then they kill you far quicker than any human would.”

A sound tickles from the back of your throat; one that’s not quite a laugh but not quite mocking him, either. The camel releases a muted sound, too, his large lips moving leisurely.

“You disagree.”

It’s a smooth assessment but one that does manage to finally drag your attention his way.

His back in similar attire everyone wears around here. Loose robes and turban around his head, hiding the crop of pitch-black hair that reminded you of John when you first saw him at the Continental.

“Oh, I agree,” you remark and feel a slight but surprisingly genuine twitch of your lips. “To _disagree_.”

There is a whisper of amusement that passes over his features and he inclines his head as if accepting your words.

“Why me?”

He withdraws his hand from the camel’s head and you feel your own hand drop away, too. Your body slants to face the man before you fully. Your weapons are all on you though you did have to get creative after being forced to wear your new attire. A fitted but still loose cotton bodysuit that covers your skin respectfully but allows you to move around comfortably. Your new heavy-soled shoes took longer getting used to than the jumpsuit did. The latter has clearly been crafted for your looming training, and all spares came in typical pale colours to make the heat more bearable.

“What do you mean?”

Standing straighter, you give him a long, searching look. “I think you know perfectly well what I mean,” you point out, respectfully temperate. “You said the Elder took interest in my skill set. But there are a great many other poisoners around the world, some even better than me on a technical level.”

The camel makes an indistinct noise again, and the now cooling wind brushes against the cotton hugging your skin. Goosebumps pinprick your skin as silence sits between you.

Rafik folds his hands in front of him, a gesture that eerily reminds you of Winston, and you have no idea what to call this _thing_ between you. It feels so much like you’re mentally circling one another, trying to figure the other out.

He’s to be your overseer till The Elder deems you “worthy” of his time. But a part of you can’t help but wonder if Rafik is his own sort of test.

“I confess that I do not know the full extent of the Elder’s thought process,” he begins and his eyes narrow a bit. “But he does what he believes is right.”

This time, you don’t bother masking your scorn, and a slight snort manages to slip free. You regret it immediately and turn to face the camel again, hoping to buy yourself some time.

A muffled sound of him stepping closer behind you reaches you, and you tense, your heartbeat spiking. “You find fault with that statement.”

Not a question and your head turns back towards him as you try to force the old, irrational spike of fear down.

“I’m not going to badmouth your master if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

A flash of something across those strong features but it’s gone quickly.

“You can speak your mind freely here.”

“_Can_ I?” you mutter coldly before you can stop yourself and immediately bite your tongue, hating the defence you’ve suddenly been put on. It’s like something is scratching from inside your mind, waiting to burst out every time this man is anywhere near. Your eyes cut to him. “Is this another one of your master’s tests?”

A smile curls his full lips, slow and indulgent. “If it were, you would know,” he rebukes. “I imagine it would be a touch more deadly.”

Your terse expression eases, the pinch of your mouth relaxing somewhat. Something is buzzing under your skin though, something you haven’t felt in...ever.

“_Fine_,” you begin firmly, briefly letting your tongue wet your lower lip. “A great many dictators thought that what they were doing was _right_ but it often leads to _genocide_. A man who believes himself to be higher power is often a highly dangerous one because he can justify just about anything inside his mind. So I can’t help but wonder _why me_?”

_Something, something, something_ in the way he gazes at you—a digging, intent look that makes you fight harder to keep your own expression coolly disinterested.

The sounds of camp fill yet another silence between you. It’s nigh impossible to tell what the man in front of you is thinking but you watch how his hands loosen, dropping back to his sides and he takes another step closer. This near, it’s much easier to see his shadowed features.

“It is true that there are others who are perhaps more skilled,” he says softly, and you tilt your head back just a touch to see him better but not allow yourself to be seen as less. He pauses briefly at that, another minute twitch of those lips before he continues, “But I believe that what you possess that others don’t has little to do with skill.”

His eyes shift away for a moment, sweeping over the camp and you can see the love there, pride even. You’re not quite sure why seeing that surprises you.

“There is a vast difference between imitation and _creation,” _he tells you and when his eyes find yours again, you are forced to hold back a shiver. “Anyone can follow instructions but not just anyone can _create,” _he explains, a note of wonderment there, and his face leans closer, just slightly. “And_ to become_. There is no greater power one can possess. You can learn from him for he knows your craft like no one else does.”

You lean back, blinking.

Confusion fades quickly as your mind scrambles.

“Are you trying to tell me that the Elder is a _poisoner_?”

“You sound surprised.”

Inhaling, you give him a hurried, “No, I just—”

Rafik’s head slants again, considering you, but this time he appears surprised by what he sees.

“How fascinating,” he whispers, staring down at you like you are a puzzle he can’t quite make sense of. “You, yourself, hold such potential yet you fail to realise it.”

You don’t answer, gazing at him with mute disbelief.

A poisoner. The Elder. The man who stands above the Table. The key to his power over everyone.

As if sensing your trail of thought, Rafik muses a thoughtful, “How do you fight against something that’s invisible? Tasteless, even. Everyone needs food, water, and oxygen to survive. Every single one of those things is easy to manipulate and control and often to such a...deadly result.”

_Deadly result._

He’s been hinting at this from the start, you simply weren’t listening.

“So he controls through _fear_.”

Rafik steps back, something more distant falling over his features. He’s a handsome man, that much you can admit easily, but right then he appears colder somehow.

“He controls through _caution_,” he rebukes firmly but his voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t sharpen, either. His regards shifts once again though; something clever, something that challenges you. “There has to be order or everything collapses into chaos. But the Table is free to do as it pleases as long as they stay in line.”

Your reply is immediate and you know he’s waiting for it. “And if they _don’t_?”

You can’t believe you are discussing _the High Table_ as if they were a bunch of unruly toddlers ready for a scolding.

The Elder.

A _poisoner_ just like you. If you are considered of interest with your knowledge, then just how good is _he_?

It surprises you that instead of feeling threatened or unsettled in any way, you find something else blooming in your chest.

A curiosity, a question, a _need_ to know and understand.

What is he? What can he _do_?

It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Heart pumping and mind racing not because your life is in danger but because there is something to unearth—to _discover_.

Rafik doesn’t answer you.

He only gives you one last, lingering look and turns to go.

“Your training begins tomorrow,” he says by the way of a farewell as he walks away. “Do not be late.”

Winston kept you alive.

Santino woke you up.

Maybe it’s finally time to stand up and do something with that.

* * *

“You became his _student_?”

The muted surprise you hear in John’s low voice shouldn’t surprise you.

Once, you felt a similar sting of surprise at those conclusions.

Pausing, you squint at him while blinding Moroccan sun beams overhead. Your journey together had been tense and awkward but you had focused on survival, pushing back your personal feelings.

It’s good to finally back on solid ground after few days of nothing but water though. It’s been uncomfortable and you’ve barely slept, constantly terrified that something might happen and the ship might capsize. All that water and no escape.

It’s irrational and stupid but despite the self-reassurance that everything will be fine, you haven’t been able to shake the terror.

That, coupled with the unknown of Santino’s current condition, have exhausted you to the bone. The anxiety you feel coats your being like a second skin and you hate it.

John picked up on your discontent quickly but you had shut down any inquiries from him down.

You’re not sure you can discuss your fear over Santino’s life with the very man who shot him.

“Something like that.” is the only, tired reply you manage to muster up.

You’ve just arrived at the Post of Casablanca less than twenty minutes ago, and the stunning white of the Hassan II Mosque greeted you long before you docked.

Being back here sends shivers down your spine. A clash of memories from two different times and with two different men.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” John states mildly, a question there. “Does anyone know?”

Despite your facile conversation, you both scan the people around you. Everyone and anyone could be an enemy in waiting. The fact that you both disappeared off the radar for a few days would have drawn even more attention. Familiar dry heat fills your lungs and if it weren’t for the brisk shore breeze you would be sweating already.

The streets are bustling with life as always. You pass the fish market, sticking close to each other. Surprise attacks in crowds are common and harder to anticipate. Women and men alike clad in colourful djellabas mingle around, purchasing food or bargaining for a better price. Darija rings in your ears as you walk and you work your jaw—that, too, brings back memories.

“Winston. Cassian, too,” you reply, trying to refocus on your conversation instead. John’s features are empty of the pain he was burdened with a few days ago. Unlike you, he got to rest during your journey, giving him that edge back. “A few others know that I spend time there but not much else.”

Like Santino. Like the woman you are here to see.

You expect John to latch onto one name in particular and don’t have to wait long.

“_Cassian_? He’s one of them?”

Glancing at the spectre of a man on your left, you wonder what to make of the sudden wariness and strain on his face, and arch an eyebrow.

“He was meant to be. He was like me, in training,” you reveal and can see the way John’s mind races as he tries to digest this new information. This took him off guard, you can tell. You also can’t help but feel like you’re missing something right now. “Saad ended up getting his spot though. Of course, when you train under the Elder, it doesn’t take long before another family tries to recruit you. Even if you don’t make the cut. We became as good as family after he learned I that trained with them. And when Giovanni D’Antonio—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

The city gate stands before you.

There was no gate the last time you were here. Just an archway that marked the beginning of the city.

Now, however, heavy bronze metal greets you. Each side of the gate is a work of art, weaving metal into intricate, elegant patterns. But what truly grips your breath is the design sitting at the centre where the gate splits.

Sun and a moon. Both not quite touching but drawn together in a circle of unity. The moon side has a handful stars hanging over it in an arching curve of metal while the sun side exudes thick, golden lines indicating sun rays.

“What’s wrong?”

The thundering of your heart rings in your ears, and you wonder if he can hear it, too.

John’s features have gone taut with focus, no doubt wondering if you recognised an enemy about to attack you. But it’s not that.

The gate—

“It’s nothing,” you choke out and the lie is so obvious you almost grimace. “We should move.”

You throw yourself forward, putting one foot in front of another. John follows but you can practically taste his confusion. It sits thick in the air but you ignore it, cutting through the street market. This isn’t something you can fully explain to him, nor do you want to.

The flow of Arabic fills the air, and let your eyes to journey over the food stalls. Vegetables, olives, spice, oils. On the other side, you spot merchants trying to sell jewellery, ceramic teapots, perfume bottles—all handcrafted, and all done so with great care and pride. Different scents trickle through the air and you draw deep breaths, soaking the atmosphere in.

A part of you...

A part of you _has_ missed it.

Missed this place.

That gate though. Your stomach churns when you think about it.

Your end goal of Moroccan Continental lays on the other side of the city. Getting there will take time, especially with both you trying to stay low.

The sun sinks behind the horizon another hour later, and you both use dingy, dank alleyways to cut through the heart of the city. You planned the entire journey beforehand, comparing your knowledge to settle on the quickest, most discreet route.

A tap of shoes clicks through the empty alleyway behind you, and you slow as you round the corner. Dragging your eyes John’s way, you both share a meaningful look in the darkness.

You suppose it was only a matter of time before someone caught up with you.

Three men appear through the shadows, all armed with knives and determined expressions. They block all the exits, cutting off your path, and you roll your shoulder blades leisurely. John doesn’t make a sound but you can almost hear his mental sigh of exhaustion.

It’s a clash of fists.

You grapple for the crude knife one of the men tries to use against you, swiping it wildly towards your neck. You duck. Swing for his gut. The punch lands and you pull him closer. He gasps for breath and you grab his arms. Slouching, he seizes your wrists painfully, heaving. He tries to yank himself back from your grip but his hesitation costs him.

You sink your own blade between his ribs brutally, twisting once. The man gurgles, shocked. Then crumples.

You’re not in the mood to play.

John has already taken one of the men down, struggling with another and you lift the knife, aiming for the throat—

“Stop!”

The voice rings out like boom, echoing. Everyone in the alley stills.

Another man steps out of a building further down the street, lighting his cigarette as he does so.

A familiar face.

“They’re off-limits,” the newcomer informs unfazed by the dead bodies.

The man trying to kill John doesn’t see it that way. “But they’re Excomunicado.”

You step closer in warning and the attacker shifts, wary.

“And the manager has granted them amnesty,” the man argues placidly, unfazed, even a touch irked. The attacker loosens his grip on John and the newcomer smiles, glancing over them both to give you a wider grin. “Welcome back to Casablanca, Miss Vipress.”

You dip your chin, lowering the blade. “Yassin.”

The attacker and John relax at the same time, slowly stepping apart as Yassin takes an indulgent drag of his cigarette, waiting.

“Please, come with me,” he says with a gesture of his arm, his smile fixed in place. “We have been expecting you.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of that but don’t comment. Stepping past the only surviving attacker, you raise an eyebrow at the dirty look he shoots your way.

You suppose seeing two of your buddies being killed doesn’t constitute for a good night. But they also should have known better.

John’s stare sweeps over your body—no doubt checking for injuries—but you don’t acknowledge that, either.

You’re just about to point out how Yassin hasn’t stopped smoking despite his promise to quit the last time you saw him. But before you can the said man swings around, firing his pistol.

The surviving attacker collapses behind you with a sickening thud, and then the night is peaceful once more. The sounds of buzzing nightlife echo from somewhere in the distance as Yassin calmly pockets his pistol, giving John a slight smile. Almost apologetic.

“Welcome to Casablanca, Mr Wick.”

With that and a cheery little laugh, the man leads you the remainder of the way to the sweeping grounds of the Moroccan Continental.

Stepping through the doors opens up the courtyard and it’s another journey through time. Belly dancers, thick smoke, daring fire displays, palm trees, and glasses of vin gris all intertwine to create an air of festivity though it’s nothing more than and ordinary Tuesday. Live music plays—flowing and jovial—and you look briefly around you, feeling the buzz of excitement in the air.

You’ve been part of this excitement once before. This lush celebration of life. Tipsy on the world and recklessness that had flown through your blood. Then, on that night, you had been ready to burn the world down without a care.

“Ms. Al-Azwar waits for no man,” Yassin speaks and you snap out of your stupor as you enter the hotel itself. The man leads you down a dimly lit hallway but you don’t need him to. You could find your way around here just fine. Yassin pauses by a doorway with fluttering curtains and turns towards John, smugly amused like the assassin is missing something, “Best of luck, Mr Wick. Miss Vipress.”

He inclines his head, a wicked gleam in his gaze and you fight back a grin. John seems to realise that it’s not a joke that’s going to be explained to him.

He steps through first.

It’s quiet here, so far away from the chaotic party at the courtyard. He moves towards the table to the side where a cluster of familiar photographs sits.

You linger behind him, not moving—

A growl. Something brushes past your leg and John stills, carefully lowering the picture frame back onto the table. He shifts towards the large canine baring his teeth at him with a snarl and then looks towards the dog at your side.

Their savage growls are directed at John only, and you fold your arms over your chest.

A silhouette steps into sight ahead, and John pivots towards the figure who raises their arms before John can so much as open his mouth. 

A loud gunshot follows. Neither the two dogs nor you react.

John falls backwards with a grunt, catapulted back by the sheer impact of the bullet.

“_Sofia_!” he calls out with a grunt of discomfort. “You can’t kill the bearer of your Marker.”

The manager of the Moroccan Continental steps into the light, her gun raised, and expression pinched. The look in her amber eyes is fierce, annoyed. She glares down at the man on her floor like she’s debating on whether to sick her dogs on him.

“I didn’t kill you,” she drones, her voice icy. “I just shot you.”

There is a moment in which she notes the lack of blood or any visible damage.

“Nice suit, John.”

The man grunts again, lifting himself slightly, his arm raised.

“Nice to see you too, Sofia.”

The woman prowls closer, and seeing her pitiless glare only makes you realise how much you’ve missed her. Her and her acidic tongue.

“I should shoot you both right now,” she says bluntly, her attention finally settling on you and her eyes narrow. “You look like shit by the way.”

You feel like it, too.

Nodding your head in agreement, you reach to pat Ikar and Santana. Both dogs flock to your side now that their master hasn’t proceeded to attack the newcomer again. “Thanks,” you mutter, scratching Ikar behind the ear. Tails wag happily and it makes you smile. “Hey, gorgeous darlings.”

You’ve seen what these dogs are capable of. But in private they’re still just loyal companions eager for belly rubs.

“Stop spoiling them,” Sofia bites out.

“I’m petting them,” you shoot back.

You hear the manager huff but she doesn’t stop you.

There is a rustle of clothing behind you and Sofia’s features go rigid with tension, her grip on the gun tightening and—

Your head snaps to look behind you.

Golden, round metal greets your sight and you see red.

John looks regretful as if already predicting how badly this will go down.

A Marker.

“Don’t even think about it,” the manager hisses, every bit the furious woman ready to rip someone’s throat out with her bare teeth. “You’re Excomunicado that Marker means _shit_.”

John searches for what to say before settling on a measured, “This is your blood. Your bond.”

You knew that this Marker existed. But you didn’t think he would stoop so low as to try and call it in less than a week after so blatantly refusing his own. No matter how good of a reason he thought he had.

But it seems that rules are only important to John as long as they fit him and his needs.

You knees crack from how quickly you rise to your full height. “I’m taking a shower.”

Behind you, John stands, too. He staggers closer. “V—”

Marching briskly towards Sofia, you pause beside her. It’s very hard to keep a straight expression.

“Can I have a change of clothes?”

Her expression darkens when she fully takes in your haggard appearance and she nods, her gun still trailed on John behind you.

You don’t bother looking back as you depart the room.

This was supposed to have been a request for help, not a demand for one.

The hallways are known to you. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked them. You navigate the narrow space easily, even though you’re practically dragging your feet after you.

You’re tired.

Just so tired.

All the ghosts from your past nip at your heels as you enter an unlocked room sitting at the end of a winding hallway. It looks like nothing has changed in it. Same square layout; wooden furniture, a vanity, wardrobe and adjoined bathroom. A neatly made bed is stationed in the corner, and you almost crumple at the sight of it. Those rich khaki coloured covers look so inviting.

Closing the door with a click, you shrug your coat off, your breaths growing laboured with every inhale. Here, alone, your shoulders tremble under the overbearing weight of everything.

Dragging your trembling palm over your face, you work to steady yourself, stripping. It’s difficult to breathe, stand, exist, but you drag your feet forward anyway.

You have to.

If you stop now, you don’t think you would ever get back up.

The water takes a minute to warm up when you turn on the shower, and you count in your head as you push yourself under the spray.

A webbing of tingling pain rakes through your limbs but you ignore that, too.

Bracing your hands against the freezing tiles, you shiver under the scorching heat of water beating against your bare back. In and out.

Your head sinks as the dense weight of both water and life pulls you down.

Several minutes pass like that. Then you attempt to move, to wash away the grime. You stare blankly at the drain as water gurgles down it.

The whole affair takes substantial effort.

By the time you get out of the shower fifteen minutes later, your muscles are laxer but no less worn. You’re shivering and you’re unsure if it’s exhaustion, adrenaline drop, lack of food, the heat, or something else entirely.

Wrapping the towel tightly around your body, you push your way back into the guest bedroom and flinch.

For a second, Santino’s ghost sits on the bed, glaring, but you blink and he’s gone.

He sat on that bed once before, seemingly half a lifetime ago now, and you wish you could launch yourself back to that time. Even if back then you were so bad. Teetering again.

He came for you again. Just like before Chicago.

And then you won a war for Camorra.

With blood, bullets, poison and forged loyalty.

Together.

Collapsing in a chair by the vanity table, you pull the tiny phone form your jacket, turning it on.

You feel cold to the bone as you wait, your shivering growing worse; an unrelenting, heinous sense gnawing at your heart. You can’t shake the dread that you may find news that will shatter your world. Break it whole.

_Please_. 

The phone buzzes the moment it turns on and you almost drop it. Readjusting your grip, you inhale deeply. Laboured.

In and out.

_He’s out of surgery. Stable but hasn’t woken up yet._

A small sound slips free and you press the phone to your chest. You hold it there; simply gasping small, relieved breaths as you curve your body down.

The ring on your finger and the chain around your neck both burn. But it’s a good burn; a happy one, a relieved one.

“When I said come visit,” a voice declares from behind you, and your eyes snap open, catching sight of Sofia entering the room in the mirror reflection. “I meant when you were free, and that prick Tarasov was buried six feet under, so we could celebrate. Not when you’ve been made Excomunicado and with Baba Yaga in tow.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her instead, forcing your tense muscles to ease a touch at the sight of her. “I didn’t know he would try and hold the Marker over you.”

She stands still for a moment, surveying you.

You’ve missed her and it’s been too long.

Her hooded stare is uncompromising when she addresses you, “I thought you said if you ever saw him again you would shoot his kneecaps out.”

A small sound slips free; almost a chuckle.

“I was drunk when I said that.”

Sofia stalks closer, unsmiling.

“Not drunk enough to forget you said it,” she states coolly, and her tone implies that she’s both disappointed and exasperated.

Your shoulders droop and you place the phone back on the vanity. A part of you wants to hold it. Your fingertips linger on the screen for a heartbeat before you finally remove them. It fills you with hope despite all the chaos.

_I can do this. I will do this._

“Things...” you begin but your voice fades. “It’s complicated.”

The manager comes to a stand behind you and stares. Your eyes meet in the reflection.

“Yeah, it always is with you.”

You’re not sure what to make of her entire demeanour. She’s unsurprisingly angry. You can’t blame her for it, either.

“Thank you,” you say with a small sigh. “I know how much of a risk you’re taking.”

Her daughter. The very reason why John has that damn Marker in the first place.

Sofia made the call to keep her daughter safe from this life. To hide her. She’s now left to pay the price for that decision. All she has left are memories and old photographs that can be found in almost every corner of her private quarters.

“Don’t bother thanking me,” she retorts briskly. “This isn’t a friendly favour. I expect you to pay me back.”

You won’t expect anything less from her.

“Not friends,” you mumble. “_Right_.”

Her one rule. She doesn’t do friends. Too messy and she’s a manager. No favourites.

Finally lowering your eyes, you reach for the drawer, trying to get the medical kit out. One can be found in every room. Fitting considering the usual patrons. A doctor is available, too, but many prefer their privacy.

“Give me that,” she cuts in, grabbing the medkit from your trembling hands. “The last thing I need is you making a mess.”

Then you realise what exactly she’s staring at. The bare skin of your arms and shoulders that’s covered in bruises and cuts. Most of them are old and half-healed, all varying shades of purple, blue and yellow. Your towel hides even more. The still healing ear also draws attention.

Seeing it through her eyes—looking at yourself through her eyes—makes you realise just how dreadful you do look.

Sofia starts with visible cuts first. She dabs a cloth with antiseptic on your shoulder and you press your lips together. Her touch is not gentle. She does everything with grim focus. But she gets things done. You’ve always admired that about her.

“Is he still alive?”

She doesn’t need to clarify who she’s asking about.

“For now.”

It pains you, how true that is. Santino might be out of surgery but is he out of danger?

“And is it true?” she demands.

Chewing on your inner cheek, you only give her a dispassionate, “Is what true?”

Her eyes spark, her golden skin glowing in the moonlight pouring through the window, and she scowls at you. “_Did_ D’Antonio make you his heir?”

“How did you know?”

“He just took the High Table seat,” she mutters, still scowling and her eyes narrow. “Everyone asked questions the moment the news broke about him being shot. Imagine everyone’s surprise when the Devil of Camorra shut down speculations and the Camorra Council by announcing Santino named you to stand in his stead.”

Hector.

Camorra always comes first for him. You know he didn’t do it because he likes you. But he does value his family, his loyalty to them is unbreakable. He may not like Santino, either, but he will still serve to the best of his ability. Gratitude is an unfamiliar emotion in regards to the menacing man, but you still feel it. However minute.

“He did it to keep me safe,” you intone softly, frayed.

Sofia shifts on her feet behind you and presses cloth between your shoulder blades. You flinch and grind your teeth.

“I know,” she deadpans. “He does that. Shockingly. And ironically.”

Your head lifts, a trickle of water trailing down your neck from your still wet hair. 

“What is that suppose to mean?” you question tightly.

She pauses, straightening, and meets your questioning stare unflinchingly. “You know exactly what I mean,” she says frankly. “You do know he loves you, right?”

_Oh_.

Your heart mangles.

“This is Santino D’Antonio you’re—”

She scoffs, throwing the cloth on the vanity as she glares down at you. “Do you think I’m blind? Or are you playing ignorant?” she questions coldly. Nor does she sound in the mood to back down. “You’re not stupid so I know that can’t be it. I saw how he was with you when he came to my city. How you clung to him and trusted him. How ready he was to go through anyone to get to you. How you looked at him even _then_.”

Every word is a stab and you try to force those reminders away. Try to force back the memory of rage you had felt at Tarasov, how you had ran like a reckless idiot, ready to throw everything away. Go back and never return—

How Santino had come. Despite the escalating situation with he Albanians, despite Giovanni’s wrath, and how he dragged you back. Not letting you run away. How he reminded you to fight and stand your ground.

The memory of his arms around you and your nose in the crook of his neck hurts.

“I do know,” you admit, your words a weak wreck of syllables. “I—I couldn’t do it again, Sof. I can’t...it hurts too much. I couldn’t risk it again.”

Surely she can understand. She knows about John. You practically spilt your guts to her. She had listened silently—not pitying you, not looking down at you—even while you sobbed your heart out.

“That’s some bullshit you know that, right?” she insists, pushing her highlighted hair over one shoulder, her glare unfaltering. “I didn’t say anything the last time because I wasn’t sure myself but that ring on your finger says all I need to know. Power means everything to him.”

She draws a deep breath, examining your slack expression in the mirror before shaking her head. “But he’s different with you. It’s not that you change him but he...I don’t know,” she mutters stiffly, sounding like she rather not be speaking on this topic at all. “It’s like you make him more bearable. You inspire him to be different. He tries to actually use that minuscule brain of his when you’re around. You can’t fake what I saw.”

A wheeze rattles out of your lungs and your body shakes.

“You don’t even like Santino,” you point out harshly because it’s true. She has always spoken about the Italian like she couldn’t care less if he dropped dead. “Why the hell are you telling me all this?”

Why now? When everything is already barely being held together.

This...

You don’t need this now.

Don’t want to think about it now.

The manager rolls her eyes. “You’re damn right I don’t like him,” she responds bluntly, her mouth pinching. “I would put a bullet in his smug little face myself if I could. But I have eyes in my head and if you refuse to acknowledge it, then _I_ will.”

Her irritation eases a touch, her features relaxing, and she places her hand on your shoulder. The squeeze is tiny, almost caring if you didn’t know what kind of woman she is. “You can’t spend the rest of your life running away from things,” she says knowingly, and a lump in your throat almost makes your eyes ache. You look away, unable to hold her intent stare. “Just because John broke your heart it doesn’t mean that you can never be happy again.”

Sometimes you wonder which one of them she dislikes more: John or Santino.

She would probably shoot them both given the chance.

Most days it’s a sentiment shared.

“And you do realise that you’re talking about one of the most selfish and ruthless men in our world, don’t you?” you say, your voice still thin, weaker than you would like it to be. Sofia has little patience for snivelling. But this is hitting a sore spot at the worst time. “What do you want from me, Sof? It’s not my job to be a moral compass for someone else.”

Santino is his own man. Capable of his own decisions. He is awful and egoistic and often cruel and—

_I choose you._

A shudder rolls through your limbs and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Do you really think that if I ever, even for a second, thought that that was your relationship I won’t have called you out on it?”

You don’t answer her. But you doubt she needs a verbal confirmation to something she already knows.

Of course, she would. She always has.

“_Fine_,” she forces out through gritted teeth at your lack of response. “Answer me this, then: has he ever made you happy? Genuinely happy?”

A part of you wonders why this is so damn important to her _now_. Why she’s forcing answers out of you over something she’s always considered “not her business” in the past.

_Genuinely happy._

The fact that hundreds of tiny moments immediately jump to mind is answer enough.

You feel how your expression crumbles. “Yes.”

“And if he were to die right now—”

Every muscle in your body goes ramrod stiff before she even finishes. “_Don’t_.”

She leans back a bit, her eyebrows rising at the venom in your voice, and the self-satisfied expression on her face should make you furious. But it doesn’t.

She only got you to admit what you already know.

That you care for Santino D’Antonio a lot more than you should.

Six years of knowing him.

What you feel for him—

“That’s what I thought,” she says, pleased, but then drops the smugness. Her fingers squeeze your shoulder again, less forceful this time. “Do yourself a favour and open your eyes. Stop running already.”

It’s perhaps the kindest thing she’s ever said to you. It’s certainly spoken with a gentler tone than what you’re used to hearing from her.

You don’t have a reply to that, and she seems to conclude that there is nothing more to pull. Or maybe she just knows you better than to try.

“So,” she begins after few moments of silence, picking up some salve that should ease the muscle ache. “You really think it’s going to work?”

You read the deeper meaning in her words but feel grateful that she’s decided to drop the previous topic. For now, at least.

“I don’t know but it’s our only option,” you tell her and grimace at another dull twinge of pain across your back. The salve has to be massaged in but it still hurts. “The city gate...when was it changed? The one coming from the water.”

Because you need to know—have to know.

Did he do it on purpose?

He had to. It’s too deliberate. A message only you would decipher.

Sofia pauses in her massaging, her warm palm still between your shoulder blades and thinks for a beat. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe a few months after you visited? Why?”

Your heart skips several beats and a faint smile curves your lips.

“Then I think it will work.”

She must hear the defeat in your voice because she pulls back, examining you once more before delivering her verdict. “You should rest.”

“We need to go—”

“You’re both a _mess,” _she says brusquely, and jerks her chin towards the bed. “We’re not going anywhere while you look like you’re about to drop dead any minute. John agreed. We’ll go to Berrada tomorrow.”

* * *

**—BEFORE.**

**.**

It takes another two days to ask the question that’s been plaguing you since you got to this desert.

“What about Tarasov?”

Rafik pauses over his meal, turning towards you as his spoon lowers. Your own meal sits half-eaten in your lap—a couscous with goat meat and vegetables—and you twist your spoon between your fingers with a frown. The fire you both sit next to crackles loudly, and you peer at the dancing flames blankly. A sickly weight of dread sits in the pit of your stomach and you shift your aching, exhausted body from training for the hundredth time that day.

The rest of the men pay you no attention. Their heads are bowed and the relaxing, low lull of their conversation washes over you while the spoon twists between your fingers yet again.

“He is of no consequence,” Rafik informs you coolly and digs back into his portion. “You do not have to worry. As long as you are staying here as the Elder’s guest the world outside of this haven is of no importance.”

The tip of your toe jabs into the sand underneath you, and your shoulders lower; an almost instinctive gesture that you don’t realise you’ve committed until you notice the way Rafik’s dark eyes flicker over your body.

Your back straightens. “He will search for me. He—”

“Viggo Tarasov is one man,” Rafik cuts you off, placid but curt, and your eyes meet. Amber light dances over his features and that arresting stare stills your fidgeting limbs. “A piece in a far larger machine, and nothing more than that. He is of no importance. No harm will befall you even if you choose to return after your stay here.” 

Viggo Tarasov.

The man who murdered your parents, who has abused you in more than one way for _years_, who took your freedom, forcing you to servitude. Nothing more than a dog chained to his will until you work off a debt that’s not even yours to begin with. A man whose only care in regards to you is one that serves his will and greed for power. A man who left you to fend for yourself when John’s enemies came for you—hunting you, hurting you, poisoning you—_is suddenly of no importance_.

Your appetite shrivels up and dies at those words.

But you know hunger. You know the value of a good meal and water.

So you grit your teeth, dig your spoon back into your bowl, and scrape every last piece of your meal clean even though it makes you feel sick after.

You don’t speak for the rest of the night. 

**.**

**.**

“Fascinating.”

“What is?”

Rafik lowers the parchment in his hands and lifts his head, his gaze hooded and pensive as he gazes at you for a beat.

The incense tickles your nose even though you’re both sitting in an open tent, overlooking the golden scenery around you. He picked up on your preference for open spaces quickly, much to your unspoken surprise. 

The wind-chimes and the dance of silken curtains fill the air with melody; a delicate, lulling thing that helps to relax your tense body.

“I confess that I do not fully grasp the intricacies of your work but I think the Elder will be most pleased when I present this to him,” he says and you hear the honesty in his quiet, accented voice. Genuine praise. “The way you perceive things…it reminds me a great deal of how his mind works as well.”

You know that.

These last few weeks have been…

You hesitate to use a word like _groundbreaking_ but they have been.

Your training consists of three parts: the physical kind which means long and gruelling sparring sessions with Saad each morning while Rafik oversees, studying the Elder’s own private research for the rest of the day, and finally meditating.

It’s the last one you struggle the most with.

You’re not good at relaxing or quietening your mind. Not good at trusting yourself in a vulnerable position which is exactly what meditating for hours on end is.

You’ve gotten better. Especially with Rafik often joining you in an effort to help. His voice has become familiar to you for that reason.

The Elder’s private collection of research is something else entirely though.

Astonishing is one of the first words that come to mind.

Parchments upon parchments full of theories and experimentations all written out in neat handwriting. You’ve spent days pouring over them, your mind racing and working overtime.

You have never encountered someone who approaches toxicology and chemistry the same way you do. Never encountered someone who is able to think so wildly out of the box. Someone whose research and concepts feel like opening a gate on your own vague, half-baked notions that always felt foolish when you entertained them. 

The Elder and his work challenge you mentally in a way nothing has before.

There has never been a time before where you would wake up each morning, feeling eager to get through your physical training just so you could go back to your tent and spend the day pouring over more.

Rafik passes you more notes daily as well as “challenges” from the Elder himself—a way to test your own creativity and ability to learn and adapt.

Normally something like this would have annoyed you—you aren’t a kid at school taking exams and have nothing to prove to some man who is yet to show his face—but the challenges themselves are so _interesting_ you can’t force yourself to feel angry.

“You sound impressed,” you joke but feel genuinely curious. “These are just basic, outlandish concepts to be honest.”

“These concepts are _impressive_ and very plausible,” he replies and gives you a measured look. “May I ask why you have not developed them further? This paralyser especially.”

You hum and shake your head a little. “Time and resources mostly,” you tell him and give him a cynical smile. “Tarasov likes to keep me busy.”

A flicker passes over Rafik’s features. It’s brief and too hard for you to read but he straightens, looking at you closely.

“What?”

Maybe you sound a touch defensive but can’t quite help it. Unlike Santino, or even John, Rafik never explains his long, probing looks.

“You have no idea what you could achieve with this,” he says quietly, gesturing towards the parchment. “Do you?”

“Some already fear me.”

After what you did. What you don’t regret doing.

His lips part and his next words feel like a physical blow. “Then they are fools. They should be _terrified_ of you.”

You’re not sure how long you both sit facing each other in silence. His eyes remind you of molten gold in this light.

What could you possibly say to that? The conviction, the quiet approval—they all reflect back at you though they are so minute that had this exchange taken place only weeks prior you won’t have been able to pick them out.

Time has flown startlingly fast. 

There is an odd sense of routine now, too.

Two months into your stay and you feel like this haven truly _is_ all you know anymore. And yet, even though you are disconnected from everything here, your world has never felt bigger. Out of the abyss of numbness and heartbreak, something else is starting to take shape.

No news about Chicago, either. You don’t dare to ask about it, or what’s happening out there in the world.

It’s comfortable here in a way that almost makes it easy to pretend this is all you’ve known.

But even the heat of the sun cannot burn away your longing.

Where is home?

For so long, you thought you didn’t have one or even need one. But now, removed from everything, you have unearthed a different kind of truth.

Home is dreary, grey walls of the Continental. Home is a glass of brandy, a glint of glasses, banter with a concierge who looks reproachful on a good day, and crossword puzzles with a game of chess after dinner.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, as you stare up at the vastness of the sky above, you can even hear a teasing murmur of Italian next to you.

And yet—

You’ve always been selfish.

Home is tied to Tarasov. Home is also tied to John.

Two things you would rather forget.

Playing with the loose material of your pants, you finally give Rafik a firm, “I want to learn _more_. Tell your master to give me a bigger challenge.”

The most powerful man in the world.

Now you understand _why_.

Rafik only smiles, pleased.

**.**

**.**

“Again.”

Groaning, you see your hot breath separate the sand under your cheek as you lift your head. Saad rotates the bamboo stick in his hand, spinning it lazily as he stares down at you, circling you. His stony expression makes even old memories of John seem hospitable by comparison.

Behind him, just over the curved peaks of the sandy dunes, the sky is starting to bleed pink. You have maybe another thirty minutes tops before the sun is up and the sand beneath you will become too hot to train on.

Reaching out, your now much steadier fingers wrap around the fallen stick, and you prop it in the sand, using it to stand.

The back of your hand swipes against your cheek where grains of sand stick to your sweaty skin. Ignoring the itch of it, you brush it away without dropping your attention from your partner.

Saad truly makes even Cassian appear like a cuddly bear with that unmovable glower.

For a second, your eyes jump to Rafik who stands on the side of your makeshift ring, surveying your sparring session with a detached expression. He never spars with you but always oversees and comments. Compliments as well as critiques.

The Elder’s eyes and ears.

It’s been exhausting.

Beyond exhausting, in fact.

These last three months have been nothing but an effort to crawl back out of the pit you’ve been stuck in. Rafik hasn’t shielded away from pushing you, always seemingly aware of your limits before you even voice them, but still willing to drive just a little bit further daily.

Every bruise and groan and slam to the ground has just made you resent John just that little bit more.

After he left, you just barely managed to hold on. You clung onto your pride and dignity by continuing on despite everything. Even after being hunted and nearly killed numerous times during the Hunt, you still managed to hold on. Even while having to deal with the lingering scars that Tokyo has left on you, you _still_ managed to hold on.

But his wedding had been the final shove to send you over the edge. You thought you were letting him go but the only thing you had let go of was yourself.

You hate the fact that you gave him so much power over you. Let his departure ruin you so thoroughly.

Your John.

You deserve _better_.

You’re not his or anyone’s second choice. Not a target for others to unleash their rage upon because of _his_ actions.

Flipping the stick, you strike ruthlessly.

So quickly that you don’t fail to spot the flare of surprise in Saad’s black eyes as he just barely manages to block your strike. His leg slams forward but you pull back, twisting your arms till the other end of the stick connects again with a dull but piercing sound.

Saad is usually the one to put you on the defensive, so you use this chance to strike mercilessly, driving him back for once as you throw yourself at him.

The ferocious clanging of your sticks connecting fills the still chilly morning air and you spin, bringing the stick down again and again.

He’s significantly stronger than you—towering an impressive 6’0, at least—and it’s only made more impressive by the hard muscle lining his arms, legs, and torso. Often he swats you away like you’re a pesky fly buzzing around his head.

Saad keeps up but just barely, focusing on his strength to try and force you back and you falter briefly, giving him a moment to strike you in the stomach.

The pain that follows is fierce and sudden, though not unfamiliar. You stagger backwards as yellow sand sprays under your feet and gasp for breath, your expression screwing up in a grimace.

This time you manage to stay on your feet though.

The man before you doesn’t goad you, doesn’t comment, but Rafik does.

“Enough for today.”

Your muscles twinge. Your lungs are burning. Despite doing good and lasting far, far longer than you would have months ago, it still stings that you can’t do better. Your frustration burns as brightly as your drive to finally best the fighter before you.

You can do it. You _know_ you can.

“No.”

Saad steps back, turning the stick in his hand as he lowers it, but a faint frown of disapproval lines his strong features at your refusal.

Your eyes jump to Rafik. “I want to go again.”

The man doesn’t so much as blink. “You are at your limit, viper. Learn to let go.”

“I want to go _again_.”

Something shifts under that peaceful mask, but Saad speaks up first. “Do as you’re told.”

You don’t bother reacting to his irritated words, your gaze still focused on the man behind him.

It’s not about disobedience.

This is something _else_.

“No,” Rafik dismisses again, his voice wooden.

Your jaw clenches so tightly your teeth ache. Spinning the stick, you lower it to your side, marching right past the rigid Saad and straight towards Rafik, coming face-to-face with him.

“Then I _challenge_ you.”

“Tread carefully,” he utters though his voice or expression lack any sort of displeasure or annoyance. If anything— “If you do not calm that flame you will not win this match.”

He calmly extends his arm towards Saad; a silent request for his stick but he’s met with hesitation.

The too-long pause prompts a cool, “Your weapon, brother.”

“You do not have to listen to—”

Rafik glances away from you for a second, his attention moving towards the man behind you, and silence follows immediately. Almost like Saad was suddenly robbed of his ability to speak.

Footsteps draw closer a moment later; louder than usual, angry.

Rafik takes the stick calmly, expression unchanging and inclines his head towards the makeshift ring.

You both move in unison, eyeing each other as you halt several feet apart.

Rafik shrugs off his outer layer, leaving him in fitted robes as he gazes at you.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Just like the man before you. A world away from everything it might as well be just you two. Finally about to clash physically and not just mentally as you have so many times in these past months.

You’ve been curious about him for some time now.

The faraway noises of camels echo from the other side of the camp. Shuffling of tents opening and people starting their day.

You strike first.

Your grip on the stick unfaltering, you roll it between your hands, crashing it against his.

Rafik meets your strike, and you know from one glance at his face that every move is being judged even if he’s directly involved in the spar this time.

The sticks meet again, and again.

Spin. Pivot. Crash. Fall back. Slam of sticks again.

“You can be faster than that.”

Ignoring his words, you focus on his rhythm. Rafik himself keeps mentioning how every battle is a dance of sorts. That there are patterns and rules and things to learn in the way someone moves. You’ve never quite seen fighting be approached like this. You’re used to _opportunities_ and _instinct_. Lessons from John and Cassian respectively.

Rafik is neither of them.

John’s advice whispers at the back of your mind but you ignore it.

Something tells you that this is not a fight you can win with his help.

You don’t _need_ his help.

A knock against your shin and you jump back, shooting him a dirty look.

“Stop daydreaming, viper.”

The stick twists through the air in an elegant arc as Rafik observes you, waiting for your next move.

He’s _good_. Better than you expected him to be but you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. Though there is tranquil air around him, his body tells a tale of silent, undeniable strength. Broad shoulders, strong neck, a dip of collarbone just visible at this distance that teases hard muscle underneath.

You go low, sand spraying under your feet as you aim for his legs, throwing the end of the stick at his chest. He reacts fast enough, seeing through your deceit, and his stick cracks against yours with enough power to make your arms dip, your muscles trembling to keep him at bay.

You let go with one hand, gambling as always, and the interlocked sticks hit your left shoulder, throwing you backwards. The pain is distant but numbing and your weapon rolls out of your hands in the fray. Rafik comes towards you at once, and your eyes meet for a single second before you throw a handful of sand at his face, kicking at his legs. His stick falls, too, and you don’t waste time.

He doesn’t fall over from the kick but he does go to his knees, and you hurl yourself at him, pitching both of you backwards. He crashes to the ground with a thud, you on top of him, and your concealed blade kisses the curve of his neck.

His turban has come off in the scuffle and you stare down at his dark eyes. Risk a glance at the midnight black hair now visible that you didn’t realise curls just slightly at the ends till now.

You’re out of breath, exhaling heavily through your nose, but still manage a victorious, “I _win_.”

He’s calm, a few grains of sand still sticking to his cheek and full lips, and you watch that mouth twitch slightly. “Did you?”

Slight pressure against your ribs and you freeze.

A concealed blade in his hand scrapes against your side.

It seems like you’re not the only one with tricks.

A nameless thing passes over Rafik’s features as he stares up at you and you feel it, too.

Your attentions snags on the bare expanse of his collarbone where you just glimpse a tattoo inked onto his golden, smooth skin. It’s Arabic and the meaning escapes you but it takes you a few seconds to force your attention away from it.

But for some reason this entire situation...

A chuckle breaks free from you—a sound so unfamiliar to you now—and you pull the blade back, the hard coil of emotion in your gut easing.

Leaning back, you gaze at him and him you, before you stand to your feet slowly. Your legs feel like jelly but you still extend your hand towards him.

Rafik wraps his fingers around yours, standing so easily you doubt he needed the help in the first place, but you don’t mention it. Easier to pretend.

Easier to pretend he doesn’t linger, still holding your hand before finally letting go.

“Take it.”

He offers the dagger in his hand to you. It’s a stunning thing. Relatively small, elegantly cut, and the handle forged with marble and rusted sort of gold. In today’s market, a creation such as this would fetch a good price. More than good. This is no ordinary dagger.

“No, thank you,” you say with a slight shake of your head. “I don’t accept presents.”

He pulls his hand back but his attention still stays on you. There is a slight flutter under his left eye, almost like he’s trying hard to figure something out.

“And why not?”

This time, you give him a slight smile, turning to go back towards your tent as the sun finally peaks over the dunes.

“Because presents are favours and favours are debts,” you tell him simply and massage your aching shoulder. It will bruise. But it was worth it for what you’ve managed to glean. “I have enough of those.”

You feel his eyes dig into your back as you walk away.

**. **

**.**

“Today’s lesson is going to be different.”

“Different how?”

Your question is neutral but your mind races.

Today is already different. There was no morning spar with both Rafik and Saab too busy with _something_ Rafik only vaguely alluded to last night over dinner.

For him to seek you out in the middle of the day is even rarer. He respects the number of hours and focus you put into your studies of the Elder’s research. He even looks pleased about it most days.

So when he came to your tent, asking for you to come with him, it made you both curious and suspicious.

“It’s a test,” he answers and you feel no surprise at those words, only blooming determination and unease. As if sensing it, Rafik gives you a sideways glance while you stride through the camp, appearing almost amused. “Do not look so tense, viper.”

The searing burn of the sun tingles the back of your neck and you know your replying stare is flat.

“Forgive my well-earned caution,” you begin frankly, squinting at him in the bright light. “The last time your master tested me, he wanted me to drink poison.”

Rafik nods his head once, accepting your words.

His robes are white today. So is your jumpsuit.

You almost match expect you’re still not sure what to make of him.

He’s exceedingly smart. Conversations with him are unfairly engaging even months later. It makes you both like him and dislike him in the same breath, though it would be a lie to say it’s not leaning more towards the former lately.

He’s _interesting_. Near frighteningly so.

But you know that it’s a sentiment shared.

You’ve caught him peering at you like you’re a rubik’s cube that keeps changing every time he tries to solve it near daily.

“A test of will,” he reminds you and he glances at you again, nodding at the two men who pass you. Hand against his chest; a gesture of goodwill and respect that the men return readily. “You should not fear pain. The Elder believes that pain is one of the cornerstones upon which strength is built. Hence the severity of your training.”

Yes, the intensity has been building rapidly but it has only made you more determined. So far, you’ve met—and often bested—every challenge thrown at you.

It feels _good_.

This is what you are at your core and every day of hard work and success fills you with new life, new energy to succeed.

Pain, however, is not something you would consider a good teacher. Perhaps in some instances but not in physical training. Pain breaks—it hardly ever moulds or betters someone.

“Speak your mind freely.”

He sounds mildly entertained and his expression is no better when you look at him.

“Just thinking about how poor your master’s logic is.”

Rafik’s steps slow but, as always, he appears curious about your words.

“You disagree,” he assumes wisely and his head slants to one side. “Yet here you are.”

That makes the faint smile on your face fall away. Your feet come to a standstill and he halts, too, turning back to look towards you. A gentle breeze flutters through the tents and canopies surrounding you.

“I don’t know what fancy tales he told you about me,” you bite out quietly and there is a warning in your tone. “But I did not need to go through the pain I did to become what I am.”

His reply is immediate and uncompromising. “Wrong,” he says simply, matter-of-fact, his regard unwavering. “You are who you are, at this exact moment, _precisely_ because you went through what you did. It is a terrible truth of life, but it _is_ the truth.”

The words land against your heart brutally, causing a falter in your composure.

As much as you hate it, as much as you want to hate _him_ for saying it, there is truth to be found in his words.

“This way,” he says after a tense pause between you, gesturing with his hand towards the edge of the camp.

He moves in the direction of the enclosed tent standing slightly apart from the rest and you follow him silently, still digesting his words.

Rafik steps into inside first, holding the flap back until you step inside as well. It’s significantly cooler inside and you sigh in relief.

The tent is smaller and far less extravagant than others around the camp. It doesn’t look lived in, either. You spot a shabby looking table with a few pieces of parchment on it as well as a rickety-looking chair. Much to your surprise, there are few plants around as well.

But what truly catches your attention is the small, curled creature resting at the centre of the tent.

“Do you know what it is?”

You don’t respond right away, forcing yourself to swallow despite your suddenly dry throat. “Cerastes cerastes,” you whisper numbly, briefly looking at the man beside you who watches you with that rapt interest. “Also known as the horned desert viper.”

The golden viper lays curled on a bed of sand in a giant bowl placed in the middle of the space. Its slit eyes are open, seemingly focused on you, and the little horns sprouting from its head make it look even more dangerous. Deadly.

“Correct,” the man beside you confirms, folding his arms in front of him, his attention is still on you. But you’re staring at the viper before you, lost in thought. “The Elder thinks that since he bestowed your title upon you, it is now time to prove you have the strength to wear the moniker.”

You blink.

“What?”

Your head snaps in his direction and Rafik looks momentarily confused till his expression clears.

“Where did you think your title came from?” he wonders as he moves towards the viper. He gestures for you to do the same and you do so but with no small amount of caution.

“The Hight Table. They—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “And where do you think the High Table got it from?”

_Oh_.

It never crossed your mind to even question it. It was simply a name—a title—granted by those far, far above you when Tarasov first took you in. You feared the Russian back then. Anything above him had seemed like hell waiting to be unleashed. You’ve never dared to ask questions then.

“The _poison_.”

Rafik nods his head once more, not needing further clarification. You suppose it should worry you. The fact that you’re often able to understand the other’s mind so easily you pick up on true meaning with half a thought.

There has been more than one occasion when you’ve spotted the men from the tribe staring as you debate over dinner. Rapid-fire idea jumping that always ends with a half-cooled meal in your lap.

The Elder.

He’s been keeping you on his radar because he’s been looking for someone to potentially fill that fourth position in his ranks. An apprentice. A part of you can’t help but wonder how many there have been before you. None of them have succeeded though. That says a lot, too.

“The Elder wants you to prove your will once more,” Rafik announces and you just hold back a frown. “To _become_ something more and learn an important lesson. Take it.”

“Excuse me?”

He appears unmoved by the tart disbelief in your voice. “Take it,” he reiterates instead, gesturing at the curled up viper.

It appears undisturbed but you doubt its contentment will last long. 

You work your jaw, your fingers folding into loose fists, straightening. “Desert vipers are venomous,” you point out forcefully light. “In some cases even _deadly_.”

“Yes.”

It’s clear what the command here is.

Put your life on the line.

To prove a _point_.

You can sense the way your expression hardens, how your body rotates and you stalk towards him, aggression lining every inch of your body.

A shift through his features when you halt in front of him, practically face-to-face.

He’s no doubt expecting you to unleash a storm but you simply gaze at him. Staring at him—_into_ him.

The suffocating quiet lasts at least a minute.

Then you turn away from him and stride towards the bowl, your fingers clenching tightly as you ready yourself for the inevitable agony.

The closer you draw the more rigid the viper curls, sensing the danger approaching, and you stare at it for several moments.

The creature that has given you your name.

You reach out purposely slowly and wrap your fingers gently around it.

The viper hisses loudly, striking at once—blindingly swift and brutal, and how fitting you share a name, after all—and it’s like a shot of pure fire ripping through your forearm. Blood follows as the fangs leave your skin, and the reptile prepares to strike again but you’re ripped away before it can.

Men shout but it’s distant as they remove the viper, your surroundings growing fuzzy. Everything is drowned out by the roar in your head and the severe, numbing pain shooting up the length of your arm. You can already feel the swelling spreading and your knees fold underneath you.

You fall back against warmth and strength—into the very same arms that pulled you away, and a gasp of silent anguish leaves you.

Your heartbeat is already spiking—reacting to the venom which will only get worse, you know that—and you grasp onto the arms holding you in futile attempt to hold on.

Rafik’s face appears above you as he lowers you to the ground carefully, holding you in his embrace.

A faint, unhappy frown lines his handsome face but there is such light in his eyes. Like he’s mesmerised. Amazed, too.

“Remember this moment,” he murmurs gently and you cling to him harder. “This is the moment you chose to face death.”

The flesh of his palm comes to rest against the side of your face and a whimper of pain slips free. “One day it will give you power few can understand,” he continues like he’s sharing a secret he would never tell anyone else.

His face is the last thing you see as the dark and the pain gnaw on your insides, leaving nothing behind.

There is a sensation of weightlessness and hard, muscular arms around you as you’re lifted into the air, and pulled close.

Then, the faintest of murmurs, “_Always exceeding my expectations._”

**.**

**.**

You burn for a long time.

The swelling gets worse before it gets better, and the only relief you find is in the bitter, tangy solution that you are forced to drink four times a day.

Sweating is even worse. During the daytime it’s near unbearable with the heat. Nights are better but just barely.

The first time you’re coherent enough, you wake up screaming, torn apart by your feverish nightmares.

Arms lock around you, trying to contain you, but you find no comfort in the embrace.

It’s only when those arms latch around you securely, and bring you outside, still wrapped in blankets, that you find some semblance of relief.

That becomes routine for a while.

You’re not sure how much time you lose to that haze of torment.

Wind tickles your cheek; a playful, kind thing that cracks your eyes open eventually.

The first thing you notice is the fire not too far from where you lay curled up in thick covers. The second thing you notice is the richness of the night surrounding you. The third is the man tending to the fire and lastly the dryness of your throat.

As if sensing your sudden wakefulness, Rafik ganders your way. One side of his face is bathed in orange light while another remains hidden away by the night as he meets you bleary stare.

His pensive expression drops and he stands, bringing a small cup with him as he squats before you. A silent offer as he extends his hand.

You stare at the cup for a long moment, not moving; not sure if you can move, either. 

Picking up on your suspicion, he offers you benign, “Drink, it will help.”

As suspected your left arm, now bandaged, stays at your side. A frustrated groan slips free and Rafik reaches forward, placing his hand at the back of your neck before tilting your head towards the cup. Such careful, gentle motion that it makes you frown as the heat of his fingertips tingles your skin.

To your relief it’s water.

The cup empties in a few mouthfuls.

“Let’s not do that again.”

Your voice is frayed, husky and you wince again at the swelling in your arm. You don’t want to see what lays beneath the bandages. It will take a while to fully recover, likely a week or two at least. His fingers linger against your skin and you listen to his faint hum of thought.

“You did remarkably well,” Rafik praises softly and looks up at him. His collected expression does bring a sense of serenity. “The Elder is pleased.”

You keep the eye contact, listening to the crackling of the flame. “Is he now?”

One of his eyebrow’s arches at the not-so-subtle mockery in your remark. He lowers your head carefully, finally removing his hand from the arch of your neck.

“It is curious that you fail to realise just how high his expectations are,” he states and his lips press into a thin line as he thinks about something for a moment before continuing, “And how few meet them, much less _exceed_ them.”

This time, you don’t bother holding back your cynicism or venom. “And is that what I’m doing? _Exceeding his expectations?_”

Just as suspected, Rafik does not answer you.

His eyes narrow thoughtfully instead as they drag over your features. As always, he’s searching for _something_, digging for _something_. The camp is quiet, indicating it’s likely the middle of the night while the silence between you stretches.

Through the haze comes the memory of this being a frequent occurrence.

You and him and the night sky. The only way for you to get rest anymore.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

You snort under your breath, but a faint smile curls one corner of your mouth.

“We’ve been practically living together for four months,” you say and disbelief colours your words. “And _now_ you worry about asking me personal questions?” you hesitate before adding a bland, “Ask away.”

He leans closer, his strong features filling your sight. Those dark eyes, the curve of his mouth, strong nose, peppering of facial hair and golden skin.

“What is it that you want the most?”

Your heart stutters at the delicate tilt of his voice. “What?”

Curiosity burns under the mask of coolness and you realise, then, that this is perhaps the most unguarded he’s ever been with you. Like he’s indulging in something he never allows himself to indulge in.

“Right now, at this very moment, what is it that you desire the most?”

Your mouth works quicker than your mind. “Viggo Tarasov dead.”

What more could you ever want? You’re done wishing for John to come back no matter how much you may ache for his love.

Rafik ‘tsks’ and shakes his head, turning away for a moment and towards the horizon before looking back at you.

“No—be honest with me,” he says and you marvel at the fact that he somehow manages to make that sound like a request and not an order. “That is bitterness and hurt talking but they are simply layers. Masks you wear to keep yourself safe. I want to know what lives inside your heart. And I know you have one, for I have seen it, no matter how well you try to hide it.”

You feel your pulse flutter at the intent way he gazes at you, at his assessment—so simple yet so ruthlessly accurate—and your lips part in an attempt to control your laboured breathing.

“I—" you choke out, pause, gather whatever little strength you do have and offer him a piece of yourself you rarely do with others. “I want to be free.”

Rafik stares down at you as fiery light dances over his frame.

“I _want_—I want to belong to myself, not to someone else,” you force out in a weak whisper. Your cocoon of blankets makes you feel safe, removed somehow, and with this man gazing down at you like you’re most interesting he’s ever encountered, the rest slips free, “This world of ours is my home, and I do not wish to part with it but…”

Inhaling deeply, you swallow down the knot in your throat and continue, “But I want to wake up each morning and not dread it. I want to _live_ for myself and _be_ myself. Feel the sun and the wind and know I can do whatever I want with my day. Go places I want. See and try things I’ve dreamt of trying since I was a little girl. I want…I just want to be _free_.”

Silence follows.

You’re not sure what to make of Rafik’s expression. Not sure what to make of him, or this place, or this entire situation. Not sure what to do with the torrent of emotions you feel boiling inside your chest. Longing, rage, bitterness, pain, determination.

Staying here is making you feel both powerful and vulnerable.

In truth, it scares you. Just how much you like it here.

“So you are a woman who dreams of sunshine yet soaks her hands in blood.”

That ceases some part of you. His words lack accusation, lack any sort of judgement but that perhaps only makes them more horrible. 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you breathe and you feel your eyes burn. “Just a regular monster but I don’t mind it anymore.”

If your time with Santino in Chicago reminded you of anything is that sometimes in order to survive you have to become something awful. A choice just like everything else in life.

A glimmer of conflict creases Rafik’s expression before he extends his hand towards you, his thumb settling against the corner of your eye where a tear has spilt over. The touch is feather-light but he doesn’t pull back right away. Nor do you push him away, either.

“There are worse things to be than a monster, (Name).”

His voice is kind, soothing, and you close your eyes with a slight nod of your head.

“You should rest,” he tells you and his touch disappears. When your eyes flutter open, he’s already standing above you and reaches out, pulling the covers closer around you. “Sleep well, monster.”

Your eyes meet in the shadows of the night.

“You as well, monster.”

His mouth curls.

His smile is almost warm.

* * *

You jolt back to wakefulness, gasping for breath.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your heart drumming inside your rib cage. Pressing a palm tightly against your breast, you force yourself to inhale through your nose, counting frantically. Cotton sheets lay twisted around your bare legs and you kick them off.

Your feet touch the cooler floor and you clutch onto your forearm, feeling the phantom pain there.

The scars from the bite are tiny—you have to hold your arm close and squint to even find them—but the recollection of the suffering they caused is very real.

You rock your body, a touch frantic, as you try to shake off the memories. Your legs tremble when you stand and you stumble towards the bathroom. Goosebumps cover your naked body when you hug the sink and its coldness tingles your skin.

Your fingers manage to turn the tap on the second attempt and cold water gurgles out. Cupping your hands, you splash freezing water onto your face, then press the back of your palm against your neck. Water trickles down the curve of your neck and you sigh in relief. Your arms locked behind your neck, you lean your elbows on the sink, counting your breaths.

Your heart slows.

So does your breathing.

It’s silent.

You’re not sure how long you slept but it’s still dark outside. Despite the rest, you feel groggy and disorientated when you do straighten.

The reflection staring back at you is dreadful.

Bandaged ear, listless expression, deep bags under your eyes and cracked lips. 

“Shit.”

There is no time to rest.

You go back to your room, throwing the wardrobe open. One article of clothing stops you almost immediately.

It’s still here.

You brought it with you the last time you came here and forgot about it.

Your jumpsuit. It’s a muted, sandy colour and still soft to the touch, clearly sown from highest quality material.

You left the desert wearing this. You suppose it’s only right that you should go back wearing it.

Your stomach rolls.

He did warn you. He did say that you coming back is an _eventuality_, not a _maybe_.

A self-fulfilling prophecy perhaps.

Putting it back on feels surreal. Despite it being years, the stretch of it still feels familiar and the fit is comfortable. Your blade comes next. The phone is too big to take and when you check there are no new updates on it. That makes your heart clench but you shove the worry aside. No time. Your hands hesitate over two boxes still resting innocently on the vanity though. No space for them on you but…

You open both, staring at the content inside. Two ampules rest in soft cushioned material. Both are smaller than your pinky but hold liquid inside. One clear, one red so dark it almost appears black. You take both out, holding them in your palm.

So much devastation and power in the palm of your hand. 

_They should be terrified of you._

Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone _should_ be. Maybe it’s time to give them all a reminder.

Exiting your room, you set out to find Sofia.

John will likely still be resting and it’s a good time as any to catch up with the manager.

Her earlier pounce had been unexpected. She will not catch you off guard like that again. Her words about Santino, however, still nag at you despite you trying to shove them behind another wall. 

You roll your limbs as you walk, and although it reminds you too much of stretching before your morning spar sessions with Saad, you still do it.

The private manager quarters are empty.

No Sofia, no dogs.

Suspicion doesn’t take long to take root in you.

You check on one more room and have your answer.

With brisk steps and a rigid expression, it takes you less than five minutes to hunt down Yassin.

The right-hand waves the person he’s speaking with away when he spots you approaching.

“Where are they?”

Yassin hesitates. Sofia no doubt told him to keep it from you.

Rage thrums through your blood at the realisation that they left you behind. No matter how bad your overall appearance might be, this concerns you as much as it does John. Your life is as much on the line as his is.

When the man still says nothing, you hiss a quieter, icy, “I will _not_ ask you again.”

The shorter man edges back half a step, swallowing heavily.

“They went to Berrada. Left about twenty minutes ago.”

He tries to tell you how Sofia told him to not to tell you—

You push past him, not bothering to say goodbye. You don’t blame him despite your sharp tongue. Your mind slips towards a certain assassin and manager instead.

Thankfully, you know where you can find Berrada without needing anyone’s guidance. You’ve gone to him once before.

Well, not him specifically.

Rafik.

Using the maze of dark alleyways, you get to your destination in ten minutes. No one stops you on the way.

The guards waiting at the gates step up, hovering their hands over their weapons. One tenses when he recognises you.

“I seek an audience.”

The one who recognised you offers a slow, “You can’t proceed.”

Your head tilts as your eyes flicker down his body. There is only two of them—for now—but they should be easy enough to take care of. Should it come to that.

“On whose authority?” you demand, for once not bothering with pleasantries.

“Sir Berrada’s.”

“Tell him the Vipress is here to see him.”

The second guard’s features go slack. You’re not sure if it’s more surprise, suspicion or unease.

“You misunderstood,” the first one voices cautiously. “He is currently seeing someone but—”

Ignoring him, you walk past them before the second guard grabs your elbow. A blade presses against his inner wrist, kissing his unguarded veins. 

“You can try and stop me and lose that hand,” you inform him calmly. “Trust me, I’m someone he will want to see,” you reassure him and feel the grip ease, then disappear. “Smart man.”

The first guard gestures with his arm, showing you the way, and his forehead shines with sweat.

Ocean breeze ripples through your jumpsuit and hair and you hear a voice in the distance, increasing your step.

“—commerce of relationships,” Berrada’s voice reaches you. “I have given you a great gift—”

You increase your speed, the guard almost stumbling to keep up.

“Relations are only as good as long as both sides have a common interest,” you state amiably, matching his falsely pleasant tone as you walk onto the open terrace.

Torches light the area, giving the space a muted glow, and you pay no attention to the guards who point their weapons at you.

John and Sofia snap their heads in your direction, both varying degrees of dismayed. The manager has her hair pulled back, wearing her battle preferred leathers, and both dogs are clad out in their bulletproof vests, too. They came here expecting a fight.

As if there is any other way with John.

Berrada’s face splits into a beaming smile at the sight of you. The man in a dark suit jacket and white suit pants steps closer at once. His hand lifts, waving the guards away and the weapons lower.

“The Vipress,” he announces, dragging the title out, and raises his hand to point at you, a smile still in place. “Now there is a person of interest. We’ve been anticipating your return.”

He doesn’t need to clarify who the _we_ is.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

John is boring holes into your face. Sofia is no better except she’s outwardly scowling at you.

Berrada’s expression turns thoughtful, his eyes zeroing in on your hand. It seems like his interest in John and Sofia has fled for now. That, or he was expecting to see you with them from the start.

“Yes, and with that ring on your hand,” he notes quietly, still staring at your hand. His eyes finally jump up to you when you halt in between the assassin and the manager. “Did you know that the original Camorra ring set was crafted right _here_?”

When no one responds, his lips purse, displeased. The displeasure if gone with a blink though. “Oh, yes. D’Antonios have always been fond of their little rituals. I imagine they like to pretend they’re better than most. More…civilised. Funny considering that their motto is _blood for blood_.”

Berrada chuckles, rolling the cigar between his fingers and you eye him, waiting for him to get to the point. “The original boss of Camorra, however, was a man of ambition. He made Camorra something more than a bunch of feral dogs running around. He made them the second seat at the table,” he tells you, waving his arm a little. You know this story. Gianna and Santino told you about the original Camorra boss when you were staying with them. “Yes, he had vision his heirs lacked. He did have three of them though. The original Camorra ring set: head, lady, three heirs and elite guards were all forged here.”

This, you did not know. Though you suppose it makes sense with how old Camorra is.

Berrada gives you a sly little half-smile and steps closer towards you. You show no outwards reaction.

“It is, perhaps, ironic that it is _you_—someone who is by Camorra’s standards no doubt considered to be an outsider—that should bring this ring back home now.”

“Inform them we’re here.”

Berrada chuckles again, raising his cigar to chew on the tip as he stares at you. “I already told Mr Wick how to find the Elder,” he says flatly. “A great favour. What will you offer me in return?”

His eyes slide away from you, to John, and then Sofia.

Your jaw tenses subtly.

Berrada appears amused.

His attention flickers down and he reaches to pat Ikar. Tension practically radiates from Sofia.

“I do so love this dog,” he says conversationally. “I will keep it.”

“_Excuse me_?”

You exhale slowly, hearing the stab of ice in Sofia’s voice. She would cut anyone’s arms off before letting them touch those dogs. 

But Berrada is testing her. He likes his little games as most powerful men with egos do.

He’s also her boss. Which means that unless she wants problems she would have to obey.

The man in question laughs under his breath, rising as he holds out his hand in a pacifying motion.

“My apologies. Sore spot, clearly,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. His attention slides towards you. “Then, if not the dog, perhaps a night with the Italian’s whore?”

You don’t so much as blink.

Since Chicago and your fateful decision to use sleeping with Santino as a cover story, you’ve heard the nickname spat at you many times over the years. It had never bothered you to be frank. People often fail to realise just how much power comes with being a whore. Humans often find themselves at the mercy of their desires. Even if you _were_ Santino’s whore why would ever feel ashamed for seducing one of the most powerful men in your world? The Italian in question always took an issue with it, of course—as he does with any display of disrespect towards you—but you had told him dozens of times that, if anything, it works in both your favour for people to think that.

John doesn’t share your indifference, however.

A sound rumbles through the air. Some bizarre mix between a grunt and a growl, his humble demeanour splintering. He barely shifts but Berrada leans back all the same. You don’t need to look towards John to know that his expression is no doubt menacing enough to scare most.

It makes you remember Dublin—your last job together before everything went to hell after your birthday—but unlike then, his protectiveness does little. It certainly doesn’t change things.

Berrada laughs again, a touch forced this time. “I jest,” he placates, turning to walk back towards his desk. Well, it’s his desk most days. It belongs to someone else but that individual doesn’t like sitting behind a desk. “It is unfortunate that we cannot reach an agreement peacefully.”

He reaches for something on his desk—

** _BANG_ **

A yelp and Sofia screams, falling to her knees, clutching onto Ikar who has collapsed from bullet impact. Not fatal, and no blood in sight, but your body still instinctively jerks towards them.

Her voice wobbles as she mumbles Arabic to him, stroking the dog’s head soothingly. 

“I am sorry, Sofia,” Berrada speaks, a gun still in his hand. “This was for you to learn.”

You finally drag your eyes away from the scene and turn towards him.

His bravado seems to wane under your death stare, and you hear the _ping_ on the stone where Sofia has let loose the bullet she pulled out from the vest. From the corner of your eye, you see her hand slide down Ikar’s back. A secret compartment where she keeps a spare handgun.

“Don’t.”

John’s faint plea falls to deaf ears.

There is a split second of complete stillness and then like thunder chaos erupts. 

A gunshot slices clean through Berrada’s leg and the man collapses with a yell of pain. His guards flurry into action but there’s three of you—five counting the dogs—and it’s a whirlpool of bullets, blood, and death.

You leap at the closest guard, your blade landing into his unguarded flesh and yank his gun free. Rolling across the ground, you shoot another in the face. Two more rush at you and you whistle.

Santana leaps over your body with a growl and sinks her teeth into one of the guard’s. You come to her aid, finishing off the man before shooting another in the chest and then head.

It’s over in under two minutes.

Sofia storms towards the still shrieking Berrada, her face scrunched with unspoken wrath. Ikar falls back, having gotten his revenge by sinking his teeth into the man’s crotch. Satisfaction hums through you at the sight of those bloody white trousers, and you don’t stop her when she raises her gun to his head.

“Sofia, don’t,” John cuts in before she can shoot the other man and she falters.

Her aim veers left and another gunshot booms through the air. Berrada screams again. He writhes, blood staining his clothes, and you stroll closer, staring down at him pitilessly. Both legs ruined.

“He shot my dog.”

Her words are brimming with fury. You hear John sigh behind you. “Yeah, I get it.”

The manager finally lowers the gun, turning to look at you. You’re still angry at her for thinking it’s a good idea to leave you behind, but this isn’t the time.

“Come on,” she says. “We gotta move.”

She marches ahead but you linger. The older man is trying futilely to ebb the blood flow but without medical assistance, he will not last long.

Not even a glimmer of pity resides inside your heart for him.

You turn to go.

“If…if you’re smart…you will not go back to that desert,” he spits out and you halt, glancing back at him over your shoulder. You cut the minimal distance you have created and watch the way he squirms on the floor, his face sweaty. “You…you have no idea what he—”

You stomp on his leg.

He lets out a wail so loud it echoes.

In the distance, a thunderstorm of bullets and shouts drowns him out. John and Sofia have encountered company. You press harder and Berrada gasps, practically convulsing from anguish. He tries, and fails, to grasp onto your ankle so you twist your foot instead. Blood gushes under your heel and the man splutters, staring up at you with genuine terror on his face. There is something satisfying about seeing him like this.

“Do not speak of things you do not understand.”

You hold the pressure until Berrada’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and he slumps to the side, unconscious.

You don’t particularly care if he’s still alive or not, either.

You’re already hunted. What do you have to fear now?

For the first time in your life, no chain is holding you back. 

You leave Berrada in his spot, following the trail of bodies Sofia, John and the dogs have created. You’re glad that you’ve visited this place once before because even with the pathway of death to follow the layout is confusing.

You’re almost at the courtyard when you hear a car pull up outside the premises. A burst of bullets and shouts follow and you hurry ahead. Screams and dog snarls sound and you push through a small tunnel when you spot a jeep ahead. Sofia is behind the wheel, shouting something. Ikar and Santana are already at the back, and John is marching back in the direction of the courtyard. You’re moving so quickly your bodies almost collide and he grips your forearms, his stare frantic.

“There you are,” he exhales, his fingers tightening around your arms. “Where were you?”

You pull out of his grip. “Having a chat,” you say dryly. “Let’s go.”

Sofia is leaning out of the window when you pull the backdoor open, and Santana greets you with a happy loll of her tongue.

You slam the door shut and John takes shotgun. The manager floors the accelerate and the jeep peels away with a spray of dirt.

Collapsing in the back seat, you check the pistol magazine.

Three bullets left.

For several, tense minutes no one speaks as you all wait to see if anyone will follow you. After the carnage you unleashed it will happen sooner rather than later.

“Which one of you suggested leaving me behind?”

In the rearview mirror, you watch them both, noting their taut expressions.

“It was a joined decision,” Sofia speaks first, her grip on the wheel constricting. “And not why you think.”

You wait, your own expression stiff, anticipatory.

“Berrada has been making cryptic remarks about you for a while now,” she explains and briefly meets your stare in the rearview mirror. “He’s been _waiting_ for you to come back, and I don’t mean in a _maybe-one-day_ kind of sense, either. If you were to come, I don’t think he would have let you leave. We planned to pick you up after so you can drop that attitude.”

John says nothing.

You consider them both, leaning back in your seat, and close your eyes.

They both seem to sense that it’s conversation over for you and you don’t contradict them.

* * *

**—BEFORE**.

**.**

It takes two weeks to recover fully. The swelling takes the longest to subside and training with your left arm becomes a painful, slow affair for a period of time after that.

You give Rafik a cold shoulder for a week while recovering, still resentful of the fact that you had to go through with this in the first place. But lessons are lessons. This was a good one, too. More pieces in the puzzle.

Despite the hard reset you had on your physical training, your academic one is flourishing. Due to more lenient apparatus while you’re physically recovering, you’ve been able to fully submerge yourself in your studies.

The sheer amount of knowledge you have absorbed during these months more than makes up for the viper bite. Rafik used a special salve created by the Elder himself to make sure no scars would remain, and the swelling would go down quicker. Same with the solution you were forced to drink during your delirium while your body was flushing out the toxins.

Supposedly a show of the Elder’s favour and an unofficial apology.

“Sleep seems to evade you even now, viper.”

Your head tilts towards the man approaching your spot by the fire leisurely.

He’s in light robes and no turban, revealing his pitch-black hair—a rarity even now.

He looks like he’s just rolled out of his makeshift cot and decided to wander into the night.

And there is something oddly intimate about seeing him like this.

“Says the man who is out here in the middle of the night.”

Your words are light with amusement and a slight smile appears on the man’s face as well.

Rafik lowers himself on the other side of the fire, glancing at you over the flames. The night air is crisp and you tighten the woollen blanket around your shoulders, cradling the cup more securely between your palms. 

“You looked in need of company,” is the only explanation he offers and your eyebrows jump up.

Your eyes leave him, journeying upwards towards the sky and your lingering smile widens.

“Just enjoying the view,” you reveal quietly. “Sahara desert truly is one of the best places to observe the stars.”

Something changes in the air between you. A slide into something more tense, unspoken.

“What makes you think we’re in the Sahara?” comes his measured question.

Smiling, you lift the cup in your hand. “Berber tea is a Moroccan drink.”

His response is immediate. “So you assumed you’re in Sahara based on that alone.”

Of course, he would expect you to explain your thought process.

You’ve done this dance a thousand times.

“No, I didn’t,” you say, amused, raising the cup to your mouth, and taking a deliberate sip. You’ve been out here for a while now and your drink is barely lukewarm but no less delicious. “_Saharan_ desert viper was a pretty big give away though. Old man Anis also does star charting. No locations were explicitly mentioned in his notes but it did talk about Canis Minor at length. Last confirmation I needed to what I already heavily suspected. Sorry for snooping by the way. I understand the need for secrecy.”

As always, Rafik doesn’t let much slip. He raises one of his hands in front of the flame, soaking in its warmth.

“No apology necessary.”

Comfortable is one way you would describe the blanket of quiet that embraces you both. It envelops you and you peer at the flame, not really seeing it. Several minutes pass like this, neither of you speaking.

Your mind wanders to New York. To Santino, then John.

_John_.

“You look sad.”

That snaps you out of your deep thought, and your eyes jump towards the man before you in surprise.

He watches you as closely as always. It still catches you off guard sometimes. In many ways, Rafik’s mute scrutiny often reminds you of Santino and his heated looks.

Santino never hides though, never holds back. He _blazes_. That, perhaps, is the biggest difference between the Italian and the reserved Rafik.

“Probably because I’m alone,” you tell him and can’t help but wonder why he makes it easy to share. Maybe after these long months of working together and seeing each other on a daily basis, you can at least admit to yourself that you like him. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

John loves Helen.

Santino, despite his interest, loves power more.

You’re not the first choice for either of them.

Rafik’s head dips and you see him consider your words. You like the fact that he appears to weigh them carefully before offering his own thoughts. He always does.

“There is no shame in being alone.”

“But I don’t want to be alone.”

His eyes lift to yours at that, meeting again, and his hand lowers back into his lap. He watches you for a long time—so long, in fact, that his voice surprises you when he speaks next.

“There will always be a place for you here,” he says and you hear the sincerity his words. “This could be your new home. You do not have to be alone if you do not wish to be.”

Your attention drifts away from his solemn expression.

The offer _is_ tempting. Even if you would never admit it. There _could_ be a place for you here. You even _like_ it here.

But what is this if not running?

Is this not pausing the problems rather than solving them? What is this if not letting Tarasov live out the rest of his miserable, wretched life and allowing him to get away with everything he did? Stealing and killing and thriving while you’re half a world away living in fantasy land.

_No_.

No, just like Santino you will have your revenge. One day—somehow, someway—you will kill Tarasov. You’ve come too far and sacrificed too much to let him go now.

He _will_ fear you.

He _will_ rue the day he ever thought that tying you to his will was a good decision.

If John is allowed to have his happy life and Santino is allowed to finally have his revenge, then you are permitted this, too. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” you wonder instead, your voice low, contemplative.

His lips part like he wants to say something but he lets it drop at last second. This time, his slight grin is crooked but genuine. “Five months of living together and _now_ you worry about asking me personal questions? Ask.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, reminded of someone else who has a habit of turning your words around on you. 

“What does it mean?” you question, not bothering to hide your genuine interest. “The tattoo on your chest?”

You tried to recall the script and search for a translation in the bound books of the Elder’s private collection but came up with nothing.

His eyes find yours again but something is different this time. His expression is earnest but the look in his dark eyes is piercing, charged.

A preoccupied hum, and then, “An old Latin phrase,” he divulges, his words mild and lifts his hand, pressing it over his collarbone—the exact spot where those words live. “I had it inked onto my skin in my native tongue to remind myself of my path in life. _Exitus acta probat._”

“The outcome justifies the deed.”

His blinks and slants his head in a vague nod.

“Somehow it does not surprise me that you know that.”

There is a compliment there but you don’t acknowledge it.

“Latin is often used in medicine,” you say, shrugging. “Also Winston.”

“You miss him.”

It’s not a question. It’s a deliberate and leading statement, opening the door for a discussion. You’re used to having half conversations with him. Each of you allowing the other to drop the topic when you don’t want to answer.

That’s precisely why you don’t bite. Winston is not someone you wish to discuss right now.

“_Outcome justifies the deed,” _you repeat deliberately, and return the cut that was mentioning Winston with a light, “Is that what you tell yourself when you obey the Elder’s will?”

Your attention focuses on his face, his reaction, but Rafik accepts the dig. He raises his hand to his face, rubbing his chin.

“Is that not what you tell yourself when Viggo Tarasov sends you on yet another mission?” he returns and your expression goes taut, your fingers clenching around the cup. Rafik drags his hand away from his face as he scrutinises you. “You kill in the name of your freedom. But have you ever wondered if it will still be freedom when it is paid for in blood?”

You have.

Of course, you have.

But parts of you that would have once been worried and cared and dreaded the answer to that question have been buried long ago.

The very people who hurt you made sure of that.

“Everything has a price,” is your harsh, cold response.

“Indeed it does.”

There is something deeper to his agreement, you can tell, but you have no way of telling what exactly.

Over the raging whirlpool of flames, you both watch each other intently.

You’re not naive enough to try and pretend that there isn’t attraction between you.

He’s vastly different from John who you still adore deep down even though you’re trying to root him out. He’s not Santino, either. Despite the fact that you would like to pretend that the Italian hasn’t been chipping away at your guard, you know better than that. He’s managed to slip under your skin though you will never allow him the advantage of knowing it. You will wall him off if you have to, force him out, and keep him that way.

You’ve had enough heartache to last a lifetime.

Rafik, however, is something else. Entirely removed from the life you know. With a mind so attractive it’s hard not to find pleasure in the time you spend together. 

“Tell me,” you begin lowly, softly. “If I were to come to your tent tonight, would your master kick me out?”

You’re not even sure what works your tongue. Curiosity, perhaps. A test of your own.

Rafik goes so still it feels like you pressed a pause on his entire existence. It makes a pleased hum thrum through your blood. Not for the first time, you are the one with power. But this is by far your biggest victory.

“No,” he says eventually, equally as soft, but he watches you with a look that makes goosebumps explode across your skin even with the blanket wrapped around you. “But I would have to take you as my bride.”

His _bride_.

The only man you’ve ever entertained the idea of marrying before was John.

That didn’t end well.

A grin moves your lips upwards and you glance down towards the fire to break the tension between you. “No fun before marriage, I can respect that.”

You hope you didn’t accidentally insult him with your carelessness, and that it’s not the reason for his current pinched expression.

“You misunderstood,” he says and something about the hushed timbre of his voice demands your attention. Your eyes connect over the fire once more, and a shaky breath slips free at his next words. “You may not be my bride but I never said anything about you leaving that tent should you come.”

Neither of you looks away.

This is a special kind of battle. One you’re not sure you would mind losing.

Your pulse flutters and a different sort of warmth fills your veins the longer he peers at you.

There is a temptation there. Wipe everything and everyone away. Be so wholly selfish that it makes you more reckless than you’ve ever been before. It’s just physicality, just pleasure, it doesn’t have to mean a damn thing.

You’re your own person. You could claim yourself back this way.

It would be so...easy.

But your heart twists.

A faraway memory of John, of his lips.

An even closer recollection of green eyes, a crooked smirk, and sunlight. _What I _**_really_**_ want is every last bit of you that you’re still unwilling to part with._

“And what about your master?” you force out eventually and Rafik blinks. Just like that the tension is dispelled. “I half expected to find a secret harem of beautiful women stashed away somewhere but…”

The man before you straightens, his expression clearing, as he seemingly comes out of whatever spell he was under as well. That’s surprising. You don’t think you’ve ever managed to unravel his guard like this before.

“The Elder believes that one rare jewel is worth more than an entire empire,” he voices calmly, his voice pleasant, but there is throatiness to his voice that thickens his accent. “He does not need many when he can have all he needs in one.”

Interesting. You don’t let your surprise show though. 

“How romantic.”

Lifting the cup back to your mouth, you watch him over the rim just like he did with you months ago.

“Do you disagree?”

You shake your head, your cup now empty, and hum under your breath. “No, that’s a nice sentiment,” you note and wonder if you let too much of your hurt slip. “But I’ve found that’s rarely the case in real life. Why does he even think that? A man with so much power could have anything he wants.”

“Because he wants an equal,” Rafik explains smoothly and leans closer. “Because someone like that is worth waiting for.”

You play with the cup in your hand, pressing your chin into the warm material of the blanket as you listen. “Who could even equal the most powerful man in the world?”

A quiet intensity burns in his eyes when he answers. “Someone very special.”

Swallowing, you rise, placing the empty cup in the sand as you move towards the fire, placing another log into the devouring flame. Orange, yellow, and red explode in a visual kaleidoscope. Rubbing your hands in front of it, you feel the heat tingle against your fingertips and sense Rafik’s intent gaze on you.

“Do you have any campfire stories to share?”

Your question is both driven by curiosity and an attempt to divert the conversation towards safer waters.

Most nights, over dinner, men exchange tales from far off lands. Stories and old memories. Most of these stories are told in Darija, an old Moroccan Arabic dialect, leaving you mostly turning to Rafik who would quietly translate the tales while sitting beside you. You’ve grown to look forward to these stories nightly though few ever have happy endings.

All the men living here ended up here for a reason. Not many have happy or easy lives to look back on.

More than just service to the Elder bonds them, and you find comfort in that. Some nameless relief. Shared scars from pain you've endured.

Rafik smiles faintly at your inquiry, watching you as you trod back towards your spot. You reach for the kettle, pouring yourself more tea and hold out a spare cup towards him.

The man dips his head in a grateful nod, accepting your offer.

“Have you ever heard of the Terrible Sultan and the Golden Empress?”

You frown in thought, thinking about it as you hand him his cup. His fingers brush against yours, lingering, and you release your hold on it, swallowing.

“No.”

Walking back towards your spot, you seat yourself down, getting comfortable as you lift the pleasantly warm cup into your lap. It’s hard to keep an indifferent expression with him following every turn of your limbs so closely. The attention is not unwelcome but you don’t let it show.

“The Terrible Sultan was the most powerful ruler of his time. They say he ruled all land from the Black Sea to the Red Sea. As well as the golden continent in between, only growing his power with each conquest,” Rafik begins, his accent giving his words an almost dreamlike tilt. “He was ruthless in his pursuit of power and wealth. He was cruel. Feared. He did not care for others. Like his father before him—he wanted to be remembered, not loved.”

The man pauses for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and you wait patiently.

“The Sultan wanted to claim the world for his own,” he continues after a stretch of quiet and you watch those strong fingers tap against his cup. “His reputation was already fearsome. Killings and brutality were all he had known and was good at. He saw it as his _right_. And while he was a conquerer who grew his empire, he was seldom loved or inspired a prayer wishing for his good health. But he was a fierce warrior who always fought his own battles which earned him the loyalty of his men. Eventually, he set his sights on a distant, unconquered land.”

Rafik takes a long while to continue after that.

You’re not entirely certain why.

“Little was known about this land beyond the horizon, and even less about its ruler,” he drawls, lifting his head in your direction as if to check if you’re listening. You’re not sure why. He knows you always listen when he speaks. He’s one of the few who manages to claim your attention so thoroughly. “The Sultan did not know what to expect but he was prepared for blood and frailty. He found only one of those things. Blood. But most of it was the blood of his own troops. He underestimated his enemies. Thought them weak. His arrogance cost him but he had the numbers and the resources so he persisted. The land he was trying to invade was not known to him, however, and every battlefield was used against him and his warriors. A great tactician was at play, he realised then. One, perhaps, even greater than him. Something he has never encountered before. So he caught one of the enemies troops. Tortured him for weeks and nothing. The man died before betraying his leader. Fierce loyalty, not fear, ruled this land. The Sultan was furious and bitter for he doubted even his own men would protect him like this. He concluded that in order to take this country he needs to bleed its heart. Find the leader and cut their head off.”

The fire crackles loudly and you blink out of your stupor, shifting in your spot. You’ve been so engrossed in his story, you’ve forgotten all about your tea.

Taking a sip, you savour the warm burn against your tongue as well as the tickle of different flavours against the roof of your mouth.

Rafik does the same. The glow of the light dances through the dark, inky pools that are his eyes and he recalls the tale with an almost wistful note in his voice.

“He set a trap, trying to act like he’s retreating,” he continues, his lips twitching like this next part is amusing him already. “But the enemy leader saw through the deceit, set a trap of their own. An ambush. They were attacked at night, and the Sultan woke up to a blade against his throat. He was taken in the fray. He swore death and ruin, his pride bruised. Yet the figure remained quiet until they were far away from his camp and other men.”

Another lengthy pause.

“What then?” you venture with a nibble on your bottom lip. “Did the enemy kill him?”

Rafik’s mouth curves; a slow, almost beguiled thing. “No, she did not,” he voices, placid as always, and you blink at the sudden turn in the story. “The figure to take the Sultan was a woman, much to his disbelief. He has heard of women warriors in other lands but all he knew of women was their beauty and ability to gift life. This woman didn’t try to hide, calling him a bloodthirsty monster who would not take her empire. The Sultan who has never met another who could ever match his iron-like will was suddenly faced with someone of equal iron. Another ruler. Beauty and rage. A great mind like his own.”

A gust of wind ripples through the camp, fanning the fire that climbs higher and higher. Spittle of embers flares through the air, adding to the canopy of the starry sky above. Your chin dips, your attention going back to the storyteller before you, only to find him already gazing at you.

“What then?” you prompt casually, and let a snarky grin grace your face, “Did she kill him?”

Rafik cocks one of his brows. “Are you hopeful for the Sultan’s death, viper?” he wonders, amused. “But no, she did not. The Golden Empress did not think killing him would be the answer.”

“Then she’s an idiot,” you input coolly, and noting his surprised expression add a flat, “If I am faced with the invader of my lands—who likely killed hundreds if not thousands of my people—and did even worse to other places, I would pull him apart piece by piece. Conquest means the slaughter of the innocent for greed.”

“So you would choose vengeance?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The man appears intrigued by your admittance. “Even if meant years of war and suffering for your people?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate for you to understand what he’s alluding to.

“There won’t be a war because the Sultan would have never left that tent alive,” you shoot back swiftly, by now more than used to your debates. Even this late, you feel wide awake. “Send a loud and clear message that if a conqueror like him can die, so will others who come to my lands, wishing to claim what’s not theirs. But I assume that’s not what happened so what did she do? Hold him hostage? Forced him to sign a treaty?”

Rafik makes a soft noise at the back of his throat—a noise that you don’t realise is a chuckle at first. It’s an oddly disarming sound that leaves you staring at him in surprise despite how brief it is.

It suits him and warms him.

Erases the overly calm and controlled man you’ve gotten to know. Nor have you seen him like this before. Relaxed, almost. 

“No,” he reveals, a ghost of a smile still lingering. “They fell in love.”

Silence.

You snort in disbelief, rolling your eyes. “Seriously? The man invaded her country and she fell in love with him? _Smart_.”

“Surely you can understand the thrill of meeting someone who understands you,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flickering over your features. “The appeal of finding someone who is your match. Someone who is not less or more, but simply there. The perfect balance to you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and offer him a cool, “_No_.”

And perhaps that is a lie but there is truth to it, too. 

“Let me guess,” you say after he fails to respond to that. “They put aside their differences, their love showed them the way to a perfect union, and they lived happily ever after?”

“No.”

You’re sure your expression is as startled as you feel.

Rafik stares down at his cup while he sorts through something inside his mind. “They managed to grow and love one another fiercely,” he tells you softly, thoughtfully. “The Sultan called off the invasion. Told his men that there are other places to claim for he loved her so dearly, he saw how much her people meant to her. And although her people called her golden, he saw a retreat in her. She was his moon. An escape from the cruelty of the sun. He wanted her to be with him. Make her his equal so they could rule together but…”

“But?”

The man before you moves in his spot, stretching his legs out as he looks up at you. “But she loved her people and her home more. She felt like she was duty-bound to keep them safe and the land prosperous,” he explains, his voice pitching lower, sadder somehow. “So she stayed. Refused the offer of his heart and soul. The Sultan was enraged. He thought the Empress used him. Manipulated his feelings so he would call off the war between their countries. But despite his rage, despite all the bitterness, he still loved her. He couldn’t hurt her. So he left. Went back to his vast wealth and his golden halls and yearned for his Empress in silence.”

His voice trails off and you wait for more but it doesn’t come.

“That’s it?” you whisper sharply. “He just gives up on her? Surely he could understand why—”

“He _did_,” Rafik interrupts, a strain appearing on his face. “He understood her _perfectly_. Loved her even more for it. She thawed him in a way no else could. He sought her out eventually. They say the two met in secret throughout the years, their passion burning too brightly to be smothered. They would make love under the stars and in those places would bloom oasis full of life and hope. Their gift to the world even if they could never be together.”

You stare down at your lap, silent.

There is such bittersweetness to this tale. To know that they were happy but never happy _enough_.

“So they never got a chance to be together?”

You’re not sure why it bothers you quite so much.

“The end to this tale differs depending on who tells it,” he says after drawing a subdued breath. “Some say they both eventually married other people and moved on. Others say she died young and his grief was felt through the world till he, too, joined her in the afterlife, desperate to be with her again. Others say they spent their lives loving each other but never finding their way to one another. She would look up at the sky and feel the rays of the sun like his kisses on her skin. He would look at the moon and feel her soothing embrace, a memory of her laughter haunting his sleep and waking hours alike.”

“And what do you think?”

Those dark, dark eyes connect with yours and he watches you for a long while. “I like to think that they loved each other in that life and every life that followed it. Love like that does not die. That which we love, that which is meant to be, will always find a way to circle back and come back to us.”

The silence between you is somehow different this time. You mull over his tale inside your head, staring up at the sky above you.

It has awakened a strange longing inside your heart you’re almost familiar with. Like a distant, hazy dream you can’t quite grasp onto.

Rafik’s head is bowed when you finally look back towards him, regarding him with a hard, pensive stare.

“Got any more vaguely sad tales to share?”

The crooked curve of his mouth comes first, followed by those inky eyes when he glances up at you. They’re warm as he takes you in.

The flame continues smouldering between you. 

Together you sit by the fire through the night, talking about everything and nothing long after the wooden logs have burned to nothing, and the sky has spilt into an indigo haze.

**.**

**.**

With eyes closed and head tilted back, you listen to the sounds of the desert.

The wind and how it creates little whirlpools of sand. How animals shuffle and eat and sleep. Wind chimes.

So peaceful.

“Not reading?” Rafik asks from behind you, approaching your spot with measured steps. “Such rarity. I thought you would want to make up for the lost time.”

Your eyes crack open unhurriedly. Like usual the brightness blinds you for a bit before your sight adjusts and you slant your head in his direction.

This tent—decorated with lush maroon silk curtains, multicoloured pillows, teapots and cups for tea ceremonies—is one of your favourite meeting spots. Both for meditating and for discussions.

“I enjoyed our trip,” you reassure him because you can feel his unspoken question. “Thank you for taking me. Darija is beautiful.”

Your trip to Casablanca had been as incredible as you had expected it to be. Rafik accompanied you himself, showing you the sights of the city. The markets, the architecture, and the culture of colours and light. You had requested a chance to visit the city yourself, and apparently the Elder had decided to reward you for figuring out where exactly you were staying. A taste of freedom. Had you known that’s all it would take, you would have revealed this knowledge sooner. When you had told Rafik as such the man had only chuckled.

The trip had taken the entire day with both of you as well as a few others setting out well before dawn to make the long journey to the city.

You’ve enjoyed every second of it. The happy screeches of children running around, and the taste of all the food and tea you tried. But it was a journey of realisation, too. Being back in civilisation reminded you that despite enjoying your enforced getaway, you did miss life. Normal life. People.

Rafik comes to a stop beside you, at the edge of the tent, and you both stare out towards the desert.

His robes are different today. Fancier than usual. White with golden stitches. You try to ignore the brush of his sleeve against your bare arm.

There is that closeness between you. Some odd magnetism you can’t quite put your finger on. And one that you’re not quite sure what to make of.

You suppose it won’t be presumptuous to call you friends but…

There is always that _but_ with Rafik.

“I could teach you if you like?” he proposes, glancing sideways towards you. His gaze lingers on your features and you stare up at him. “Then we can go back whenever you please.”

You know what he’s doing. What his mild suggestion implies.

It’s been longer than the agreed six months. 

He’s giving you another reason to stay.

“That so?”

He notices your tenser intonation; the way words drag out of your throat, almost reluctant. He doesn’t comment.

For several minutes, you stand side by side with your shoulder leaning against the support pole holding the tent upright.

Eventually, his gaze finds home in your body. You don’t let it show how aware you are of the said attention.

There is tension between you ever since that night by the fire. Like an unspoken _we could_ that festers in the distance between you. Most days you are very good at ignoring it, especially in front of others. It’s significantly harder to do so when you’re alone.

His quiet scrutiny continues for a while.

“Look at you,” he begins softly, like he’s just realised something of great importance. “Look at the strength you hold yourself with now. You came to us seven months ago as a shell barely clinging to life. Now you stand firm and look at the sun with a desire for life. You did not let your pain consume you. You shed your skin and been reforged.”

You falter.

It’s peculiar how you don’t notice it anymore.

The steadiness with which you walk. The way your hands shake less. How fewer nightmares haunt you. They still persist but at least it’s become manageable. The muscle and strength you have lost after the wedding has returned. There is still some way to go but these seven months _have_ remade you.

Swallowing, you tilt you head his way, and he adds a quiet, “You make me proud, viper.”

“_Stop_.”

A tremble through your limbs. It locks your throat, knits your brows, and you pivot towards him. Your crossed arms loosen, dropping to your sides.

His confusion is apparent.

“Stop what?”

You feel how your expression creases, your lips pursing into an unhappy line.

“Making this harder than it has to be,” you say quietly, knowingly. “We both know what this is.”

You know he knows.

You saw how he watched you when you glanced back at him at the market. The light in his eyes when children gifted you with a silken ribbon. How he watched you when you sat side by side on the beach, peering at the receding waves. Your longing expression had focused on the distant horizon where an ocean away your home was waiting.

And all the people you’ve left behind that you did not expect to miss as much as you do.

No matter how much you like it here, this isn’t quite the same.

You miss Winston trying to teach you chess. Miss his music recommendations and snarky comments that are often politely veiled insults. Miss his lessons that sharpen your own skills.

You miss Charon and his soothing, deep voice calling you “Miss”. Miss the way he always makes sure that your favourite food is on the menu, and how he always indulges in your silly attempts of discussion.

You miss—

_Then perhaps you can be my exception, hm? My first real friend._

Santino.

It still startles you and unnerves you how often you catch yourself thinking about him, too.

How much you’ve missed them all. You always figured disappearing would be simple, preferable. Detach yourself from everything. No Tarasov, no debts. But the exact opposite seems to be true.

You’ve never realised till now just how much they soothed your loneliness.

“A goodbye,” Rafik murmurs. “Today was a goodbye.”

So he did know.

You’re not sure where to even begin with what you glimpse on his face for a brief second. His head turns towards the desert and you swallow any words you could say.

“Did you not feel welcome—”

You don’t let him finish. “I can’t stay here.”

His attention goes back to you, his voice soft, “Why not?”

“Because I can’t just…” you trail off, shake your head, chew on your inner cheek. You didn’t expect this to be so hard. Maybe it’s because truly have enjoyed staying here. Enjoyed his company even more. “I can’t let Tarasov get away with this. He _destroyed_ my life. After all he’s done...”

You won’t rest till he’s bones and ash.

Not for your parents. Not anymore.

For _yourself_.

“There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life,” he says, his tone pensive. “You would choose revenge over peace?”

He’s peering at you when your head snaps back towards him. He’s so close you can feel his body heat and he turns to face you as well.

“This _isn’t_ peace,” you argue weakly, your voice thinning with hurt. “It can be, I know it can be, but right now it’s just running. Hiding. Pretending. I’ve been putting it off like a coward because I do like it here,” you say because it’s true, and you mean it, and it hurts how a brief crack in his stoic expression appears before it disappears, so you add, “If I stay a day longer...I will never leave.”

Because you keep making excuses. Just one more day, just one more moment. Just another day of studies. Just another sparring match. It’s all for your own good, you try to convince yourself.

His voice is still that gentle lull when he asks you a faint, “And would that be so terrible?”

“No. No, it won’t be,” you breathe, your admittance raw, and step closer to him, deciding to finally put your cards on the table. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Thank you for your research, and training, and patience and...just _everything_. You are not what I expected you to be.”

Understanding dawns over his features and his bearing changes. A straightening of his shoulders. The very air around him seems to thicken with that authority you’ve only caught glimpses of a few times. “You _know_,” he says deliberately. “Since when?”

“I suspected from the beginning but I knew for certain after the viper bite,” you confess and try not to twitch under suffocating intensity of his stare. It’s different from Santino or even John—the former always fond, teasing, hungry; and the latter aways gentle, subdued, half-hidden. “It was never about proving a point or even being brave. I wanted to draw you out.”

Because if that hadn’t revealed his hand, nothing would.

His eyes darken at that, almost pitch-black, so you hurry along, “I’ve been practising with viper venom for over a year now. Since it was used to poison me during the Hunt. My threshold for it is higher. I didn’t go under right away and your words. _Always exceeding my expectations_.”

You can still recall the muted ring of it inside your head. You haven’t been able to shake it since.

Rafik’s chin juts up and you feel naked under that probing stare. He’s not hiding anymore. What you see before you makes you finally understand why they fear him. “So it would appear we were both testing one another.”

You swallow, your proximity grating against your senses. “Rafik is not your real name, is it?”

“It is not,” he admits evenly. “It is the name of my brother.”

His brother.

Of course.

The younger man who came to visit with his entourage two weeks ago. You had thought then that it was a ploy. That perhaps the supposed “brother” was one of his actual advisors playing pretend. The idea that he does, in fact, have a sibling startles you for some reason.

Maybe because they are so different.

The _real_ Rafik is quick to smile. Charming. Able to weave conversation out of thin air much like his brother.

They bore striking resemblance to one another but you still had your doubts. There was affection there, too. They were close but one stark difference between them was clear.

It revealed itself when Rafik and sat down beside you that night by the fire, giving you a curious, yet critical stare.

And when you had asked why he was here and beside you, he had offered a rather simple response in return.

_I’ve never seen my brother quite so taken with someone before. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about._

And he had stayed by your side the entire evening, even after his older brother had joined you in his usual spot on your left. Together you had talked for hours, long into the night, and it had been as pleasant and as easy as breathing.

He had left the very next day with a kiss on your knuckles and a playful gleam in his brown eyes.

_I do not doubt that we will meet again, viper._

Unlike his older brother who is power and order, Rafik is a dreamer.

Not bound by anything or anyone.

“Why bother with any of this?”

Why bother with the whole charade for months when he could have introduced himself as himself from the start. You’ve been mulling it over in your head for a while. A trick? Some sort of test?

“Because you cannot wear a mask forever,” he tells you calmly and leans closer. That crackle of power coats him and now that he’s not suppressing it, you feel it acutely. “Sooner or later the truth slips through. I wanted to know you without titles or expectations,” a pause, and flash in those dark depths before he exhales, “Hello, my viper.”

It’s funny.

Coming from anyone else, it would be possessive. Perhaps even twisted. Like claiming ownership of someone.

He makes it sound tender.

It should please you that you were right about his intentions in regards to hiding his name. It was a test after all. But not one you expected. And not one you did very well on.

“Hello, Elder,” is your hushed greeting, and a chill nips at the skin of your neck.

Finally face to face with everything out in the open.

Your throat is dry and for once it has little to do with the Saharan heat. “Do you stand by your word? That I can leave? It’s been over six months.”

His rapt attention splinters. It gutters him of any previous warmth to be found, leaving something colder and dourer behind.

“There is no happiness for you on this path,” he states, his words brisker that you’re used to hearing from him. It seems to sharpen his accent, too. “You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A hushed breath escapes you. “To you.”

The Elder dips his head in a slow, wilful nod.

“Yes. To _me_,” he says, his mouth a firm line. “I understand the vengeance that drives you. But you will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. I tried to show you a different path. Wanted to help you realise your own potential. Encourage your research with my present.”

Those words. There is something almost damning about them.

Denial and anger swell swiftly. “You _don’t_ know what it’s like,” you mutter, your words chipped with ice because he taught you to force calmness into your being. He’s the most powerful man in the world. He should petrify you as should the possibility of his wrath. But he _doesn’t_. “No one does. You have no idea what it’s like seeing his face and seeing him thrive. He…wait…what…what do you mean present? You haven’t given me any.”

He tried to give you that golden dagger after your spar but aside from that…

“Haven’t I?”

Your mind scrambles, picking apart the last seven months with him. Did he mean food and shelter? Did he class that as—

_Encourage your research with my present._

Research and present.

“It was you,” you breathe, straightening as realisation hums through you. “The flowers, for my birthday, that was _you_. _Why_?”

There had been no card on those flowers, and you assumed that it had been Winston who gave them to you based on your conversation the night before.

Just how long had he been waiting to summon you? How closely has he been following your progress?

“I heard about your spiral,” he voices, a touch forlorn, reading your expression. The confusion. “I had hoped to extend a lifeline your way. I’ve hoped that it would give you a reason to go on. When it didn’t work, I had you summoned.”

He’s right. The flowers didn’t give you a lifeline.

Winston and Santino did that. By pushing you to crawl back to your feet. By demanding that you fight back. For yourself.

Their faith in you was the lifeline.

“And now I wish to leave,” you tell him faintly. “Will you let me?”

Because he doesn’t want you to. He doesn’t need to say it for you to know it. It’s written in the very fabric of him. It can be found in everything from the way he’s standing, speaking, to the way he’s surveying you.

Silence hangs over you for a long, long time.

Finally, the Elder shifts closer, reaching for you.

His hand is large, warm, and dry when it comes to rest against the side of your face.

“You are bound by a debt,” he reminds you. “Should anything befall Viggo Tarasov before it is repaid, I will know.”

A ball of acid sits at the back of your throat. “And after the debt is repaid?”

His disappointment is clear. He no doubt expected his warning to be a deterrent.

“After,” he states icily. “He is yours to do with as you please.”

Your heart flips.

“Your _word_.”

It’s practically a demand.

_Reckless, reckless, reckless_, a voice that sounds too much like Winston hums. But just this once you don’t heed the warning.

He leans closer. “My word.”

It sinks into you; a roar of vicious victory. One day, you will be able to kill Tarasov without fear of consequences. One day. Your freedom first and then—

“It will destroy you,” he states mildly, his eyes tracking over your features, and you tense. “Your desire for vengeance will poison everything in your life, and one day, you will find yourself back here but a part of you will be gone. It will hurt you and maim you if you do not control it. Do not let that fire consume you.”

He leans so close you feel the warmth of his breath when he presses his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter close, a tingle racing down your spine.

You’re more alike than you would ever dare to admit.

Drawn by a bone-deep need to be understood. Challenged.

“I am, however, a man of my word,” he murmurs and you feel the tingle of those words brush against your mouth. “You are free to leave, ya amar.”

The weight against your forehead disappears. And the faintest brush of his lips against your forehead follows—nothing more than a whisper of a phantom—before it’s gone, too.

He lets go of your face, and your eyes snap open when you feel him pull away.

Your sight blurs in front of you—a smear of his white robes—and you only see his back as he turns away from you, facing the desert once again.

You can’t see his face anymore.

“Go now,” he declares, his voice cold, aloof. “While I still allow it.”

You’re not sure why you hesitate but you do. Just for a heartbeat. 

Then, you take a step back, and another before spinning around and walking out of the tent.

You pretend that you don’t feel his stare on your back until you disappear from his sight.

* * *

A bump shakes the jeep and you jolt.

Sand greets you.

You said goodbye once and now here you are.

You had left the desert with the knowledge that even if you were to change your mind last minute the camp would no longer be there.

For security, it would be relocated. Less lack of trust and more common practice.

That’s why you went to Sofia and then Berrada. Berrada should have been the line to contact Elder with.

The Elder.

You rub your face.

Maybe he will not wish to see you. It’s been years. And now here you are. Coming back only because you’re in trouble.

The jeep crawls to a stop.

The journey here had been mostly silent, all of you lost in your own heads. Your only topic of discussion had been your next step which is apparently to wander out into the desert and _hope_ that the Elder will want to see you.

You walked away from the desert, from the man himself, years ago and had spent that time forgetting you ever came here. To avoid the temptation of simply giving up and disappearing again. Every time it got hard, running away had seemed like the most obvious choice.

You push the door open, jumping out and the heat hits you like a brick.

You’ve forgotten how suffocating this dry climate can be. Still, you wager your attire is significantly more comfortable than John’s pitch-black suit.

Sofia lets out Santana and Ikar, too, giving them some water.

You ignore the conversation between the manager and the assassin, wandering further ahead, and lift your head towards the sun. The camp could be anywhere after so many years. Trying to go back on memory would be useless.

Despite that, you still try to recall as much as you can, turning from one direction to another. East is Casablanca. You drove west, deeper into the Sahara—

“Water?”

Sofia stops beside you, offering the bottle and you take it from her, drowning a large gulp.

She wants to say something. You both watch the horizon, and you don’t have to wait long. 

“Come back with me,” she speaks up suddenly, and you turn to look at her. Her expression is firm, no-nonsense. The one she uses on unruly patrons. “Stop this suicidal plan. I can hide you in the city.”

Thinking back on her earlier words about Berrada, you only offer her a small, indulgent smile, “For how long?” you question lightly. “This is the High Table, Sof. They will never stop coming. They will rip Casablanca apart piece by piece. And they will kill you, too. I can’t do that to my friend.”

“We’re not friends,” is her immediate and tart retort. 

You dip your head. “Right.”

She huffs a breath, visibly frustrated. 

“What if it doesn’t work?”

You think about that for a while.

Dying out in the desert is not the worst way to go given your lifestyle.

It would be slow, sure. But at least there would be minimal pain. 

You imagine your slight smile is a touch sad when you turn towards her, your hair fluttering in the breeze. “Everyone’s story ends at some point, right?”

Her expression turns icy at that. She takes a few steps closer and you’re practically face-to-face.

“You stand there and act like you’re _so_ alone but I think you’re too much of a coward to face the truth,” she snaps and you blink in surprise. Her voice drops, softening, but her stare is still cutting. “There are people out there who would fight for you. If only you asked.”

You can feel John’s attention on you both but doubt he can hear you from his spot by the jeep.

“You’re right. There are,” you agreed quietly and she seems to deflate at your easy admittance. “But I got myself into this mess, and I will climb out of it myself. I’m not dragging my family down with me.”

You don’t need to say it out loud for her to know she’s included in that statement. 

“If I don’t make it back—”

“You better shut your mouth,” she snarls. “If you think that—”

You step closer, wrapping your arms around her. It’s brief but tight, and you inhale the scents that are uniquely her. It lasts only a moment before you loosen your arms, releasing her.

“I’ll be seeing you,” you tease.

She swallows visibly, her forced glare not as effective as she would no doubt like it to be.

“You _better_.”

Then she turns sharply and marches away without looking back and you bite back another smile.

One proud woman.

The jeep peels away minutes later and only a speck of darkness is left as your companion.

You pivot west and begin your trek.

Five minutes pass before John catches up with you.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking.”

A defeated sigh slips out of him. You almost make a comment that this is what talking with him is like on a good day but fight back the urge.

Much to your surprise, he lets it drop.

The heat is merciless.

Despite that you both still put one leg in front of another, walking for over two hours in complete silence.

Mentally, you try to prepare for both the worst and best-case scenarios.

Best: the Elder finds you and you manage to find a way to get your Excomunicado lifted.

Worst: you both die out here.

“We should talk.”

His voice startles you so much you almost flinch.

John’s breaths are louder than usual, his skin shining with a layer of sweat. At least he knows enough to not start removing clothes. That will only dehydrate him faster.

“About what?” you wonder, pushing your legs harder to get you up a steep dune. “Everything I wanted to say to you I did back at your house.”

You drag the back of your hand across your forehead, controlling your breathing. Unfortunately, you have a sinking feeling you already know what he wishes to discuss despite your words.

“About what happened,” he begins warily. “At the Continental.” 

Your feet slow until you stop completely, giving him a curious look.

“Let me tell you what happened,” you say calmly, cordially. You don’t want to waste energy by being angry at him right now. “You nearly killed two of my friends, and shot the third in the head with his condition currently unknown to me. And here I am, hunted, because I loved you too much to let you die.”

He doesn’t react to your words, so you can’t help but ask, “So tell me, John, what is it exactly that you wish to discuss with me?”

He gazes at you, silent, and once you would have given anything to have him look at you with so much emotion.

“Do you still love me?”

You laugh. You can’t quite help it.

Shaking your head, you turn away from him, “Go to _hell_.”

“V, wait,” he mutters. “V—”

Something, a coil, snaps.

You round on him and he has to stumble to a stop.

“You swore a life debt to me. A _life debt_,” you hiss, your voice crackling with rage. Your throat aches from it, and it feels like a furnace has suddenly woken up inside you. John, for once, appears taken aback by what he sees. “I called it in and you as good as spat on it. Spat on everything we ever stood for. I practically _begged_ you to listen but you _didn’t_. It might have broken my heart but at least I could understand your decision to leave, to be happy even if it was with someone else. You know _why_? Because I wanted you to be happy. But how do you justify this? _How_?”

His brows knit and his mouth parts. “I thought that it never would have ended. I did what I thought was right.”

You nod your head with a tepid smile. “I know you did,” you reassure him and he squints at you, surprised. “I don’t blame you for going after him. I would have done the same. Do you at least regret it?”

He hesitates. His head lowers. 

“It was a mistake,” he whispers. “I should have listened to you.”

A sound tickles the roof of your mouth and you look up towards the sky. The sun is starting to set. With the night will come a very different challenge.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He knows it isn’t but it’s now a choice between the truth you both know, and a lie he might try and convince himself of. 

“No,” he admits, still staring downwards. “The only thing I regret is that it’s causing you pain.”

He gazes up at you and you sigh, trying to relax your body. The explosion came out of nowhere but you suppose it’s the shock finally wearing off. 

“That’s the problem right there, John,” you mutter and there is a note of defeat in your voice that makes his expression crease. “You think this is just about Santino but it isn’t. You nearly killed the people without whom I won’t be here today. You killed men I knew, men I worked with, men who had lives that I knew about. Even when I had nothing, I had Ares and Roberto and Santino. My _friends_. They never gave up on me though they could and _should_ have.”

That seems to do it. This time the realisation on his face is different. Like he’s finally grasping how much bigger this is. How much more pain he’s responsible for. You suppose from his perspective it’s easy to assume it’s only about the Camorra head but Santino is not the only person in your life. He never has been.

“I just wanted you to listen. That’s all.”

You don’t stop him when he decreases the remaining distance between you. 

“I can’t change what happened,” he admits, his expression softening, and a distant ache hums against your heart. He reaches out, cautious, his warm hand touching yours. “But I can make amends and I will. I _swear_.”

You used to dream about his skin on yours. Dream about kissing him and having a life with him. Dream about all you could achieve together—an unstoppable unit of raw skill, and with unmatched potential.

Together you could have had _anything_.

Together with this man of focus, will, and integrity.

Except that’s all it was. A dream. And John’s dream was stronger than your own.

You’ve grown tired of holding his happiness against him. It’s not fair to either of you.

You’re not his lesser anymore. You’ve worked for years to be regarded just as good as him. You’re not that young, naive girl who used to shadow his every step and watch his back with blind adoration.

Let _him_ prove a point for once.

You’re tired of chasing impossible dreams—chasing _him_.

“Your word means _nothing_ to me.”

Your hand slips from his.

**.**

**.**

You’re burning.

It’s oddly peaceful though. Familiar.

This is better than water. But anything would be better than water.

You’re alone. But you suppose that’s only right, too.

You’ve lost count of the time. It feels like you’ve been lost in this desert for weeks, if not months. You’re not even sure which one of you collapsed first. You or John. Maybe you helped each other till neither of you could go on.

Peaceful.

You never thought death would be so peaceful. 

“How did we end up here, I wonder?”

Your eyes crack open at that voice.

Everything blurs. Golden, bright glow blinds you as everything spins but you still see him.

_Oh_.

You’ve worked so hard to hold yourself together, to push everything back and focus, that seeing him is like a punch right through your chest.

Suddenly it’s like a floodgate has been opened and you feel the sting in your eyes.

Your cracked lips part and only a pained, dry sob escapes you, “_Santi_.”

He’s standing above you, gazing at you before he lowers himself down so he can see you better. He’s a hybrid. A man of past and present that you’re seeing morphing into one. Dark shirt, wild hair, a too familiar silver chain around his neck that all point to the past—to when you first met him. But then there is his expression. The playful gentleness of his eyes, and the slant of his mouth that makes him look like he’s a breath away from smiling. This expression you know. Heat and gentleness and—

And _love_.

You saw this expression at Naples. You’ve been seeing it for years now. Even if you always chose to turn away from it, from _him_.

“Hello, amore.”

It’s a whisper, a caress, a hug, and a kiss all in one and your expression crumbles.

Golden sun shines upon him—another remnant of Naples, of watching him napping in the sun—and this brightness is so different to the last time you saw him.

Clinging to him, your hands covered in his cooling blood, and so very desperate to hold onto him. Pull him back to life by force if you have to.

He was so still.

You held onto him like you could force the warmth back into him. Share your life with him like he has shared his with you so many times.

He can’t be here. He can’t be real because last you saw him he was being rushed to surgery. While all you could do was stand back and watch, hoping that the blood you gave him would help him stay alive. Your life force, now coursing through his veins.

“You’re not real.”

Your words are a croak and his head tilts.

He looks unbothered but your assessment, only vaguely amused.

“Of course not,” he shoots back breezily.

You blink, trying to clear your vision, now reduced to clinging to his voice instead.

Everything blurs again. 

“Then why…why are you here?”

This time amusement from his expression fades, leaving something solemn behind. It’s an odd sight. You don’t see him like this often and you want him to smile. You want him to _live_—

“Because you are dying,” Santino states promptly, but not unkindly. Those green eyes soften when he reaches out, his palm hesitating over your jaw. “Because you did not want to be alone. So here I am.”

You’re unsure if you can say anything in response to that.

You’re just glad he’s here. That you’re not alone after all. That here, at the end of it all, death wears a familiar, loving face.

“Maybe we’ll both die together,” he muses suddenly and you blink, realising that your eyes had begun to close. You find him laying beside you, face-to-face, and exhale softly at the proximity. He looks so real this close up. It reminds you of Naples. “Rather poetic if I do say so myself, no?” he adds quietly.

A soft teasing. Crinkling around his eyes. You want to reach for him even though there is no strength left in you for that.

“No,” you exhale. “I won’t let you.”

His mouth curves; a grin you don’t see often because it’s softer, crooked. It’s _your_ smile. That one special smile he only ever bestows you with and it only hurts more.

Wind teases his brunette curls, wild and untamed as him, and you’re not sure why his smile transforms into something more sardonic.

“We both know no one would miss me, amore.”

You can’t believe he would still think that. Surely he doesn’t? Surely he knows—

“I would,” you choke out, fragile and wet, your eyes _burning, burning, burning_— “More than anything.”

The hardness, the arrogance both recede at that—like dispelling a cloud with your fingertips and those green eyes drag over your features.

“_Ah_, well if we both somehow survive this and see each other again,” he whispers and like always the low roll of his accent washes over you like a wave. “That might be nice to hear.”

You want to see him again. So very badly.

“I promise.”

Santino smiles again. Fainter, understanding.

_I choose you._

He did, didn’t he?

You still owe him a trip to Paris.

Maybe in a better and kinder world...

Maybe in that world, you would have met him first. Maybe in that world, you would have loved him forever. Maybe in that world you’re together and happy and Paris is a flight away every weekend.

_Imagine you and me—and everything we ever wanted._

“Will you stay?”

His mouth parts and he shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief. His fingers come to rest against your face and even though you know it’s not real, it _feels_ real. Real because he’s touched you like this so many times before the gesture is known to you. It lives in your bones and right now, it’s like phantom fingers are touching you after all.

“Where else would I go, _hm_?” he wonders softly, and his forehead ghosts against yours—not quite touching but close enough for you to feel a little less afraid as your eyes slip close. “_Always_.”

Your lips part—

A harsh yank.

Everything tips. The world unravels around you.

Santino is gone from your side.

Everything goes dark again.

* * *

You’re floating inside a sun.

The suffocating heat singes your edges but you’re not helpless. Your own fire burns just as brightly and you will not be devoured.

You refuse to be.

You rebel. You trash.

It’s so hot you can’t inhale without feeling liquid flame sliding down your throat. Like water—

A jolt.

A wheeze slips loose and you blink.

A buzz of voices, soft and muffled, reach you but you can’t decipher what they’re saying. Your body feels like lead. Something wraps around you—warmth and strength, strength and warmth, and…

You lean into it for a moment. It scratches at something deep down. Like a phantom limb expect it’s a sensation that sits in your gut.

It doesn’t fit right.

Because it’s not right.

Then comes the coolness of water wetting your lips. Your fingers reach blindly, trying to grasp on to something. Anything.

Then quiet. A whistle of the wind. More water. Something else, not water. A tangy, bittersweet flavour. The heat recedes, fading.

Soon enough you feel the coolness of the wind against your sore skin.

Your eyes flutter open. Sandy dunes and a maroon carpet greet you. A far away, enchanting chime of bells. Your head rests on plush pillows.

For several minutes, you don’t move a muscle.

But you can feel it.

The way he watches you.

That intensity can be felt even without you putting him in your sight.

Then, comes that achingly familiar, low voice, “Welcome home, viper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, if you read this all in one sitting. Legend status acquired. Let me know your thoughts and feelings. I imagine there will be many after that lol.


	18. the truth will set you free;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a bit of break from this story due to burnout mainly but we're back in action, folks, and I am humbly offering 36k upon my return.
> 
> I've been waiting for this chapter for a very long time. Hope you enjoy and good luck.

Sometimes he genuinely wonders how many poor decisions led him here.

To this exact moment in time. To this exact set of circumstances.

“I wish to see him.”

Winston tilts his head at the cool demand, not letting any outwards reaction slip.

The Adjudicator stares him down like the request should have been fulfilled yesterday. He’s not, admittedly, used to people making such demands. Especially not so brazenly. And inside his own hotel no less.

He gazes at them for a beat before nodding his head stagily.

“Forgive me and my old age,” he begins calmly. “But who exactly do you wish to see? The chef perhaps?”

He knows perfectly well who the Adjudicator wants to see. Judging by the slight, annoyed pinch of their mouth so do they. Charon stands a step behind the High Table’s associate and his expression is as professionally cool as always. In truth, however, they are both wary at best.

“You know of whom I speak,” the Adjudicator snips, their voice that calm, almost robotic cold. “Santino D’Antonio was shot at this hotel, was he not? Mr Wick fired the shot but the bullet failed to kill him. To our knowledge, he is still in your care. Or is that incorrect?”

_Keep him safe._

Such a simple request. A request to keep a man he barely tolerates on a good day shielded from other sharks. For once, Winston wishes you cared about yourself as much as you do about others. 

_You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t._

Sometimes—_often_—the memory of those words worries him. Truly. Wild, relentless drive and desperation rarely mix well together. The former you have plenty of and the latter has been mounting too rapidly for his liking.

Silencing his thoughts, Winston tilts his head in an accommodating manner. Conjuring an innocent expression, he nods his head for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour alone.

“Ah, yes, Mr D’Antonio. Tragic, truly, but the Vipress saved his life,” he explains smoothly, watching the individual before him with the same shrewdness the Adjudicator is watching him. “Rather heroically, too. Quite surprising that the Table did not see her actions as such.”

The Adjudicator’s eyes narrow. From their spot on the office chair, the Table’s representative regards him with disinterested, yet vexed expression. Clearly, his approach of talking circles and giving half-answers about your and Johnathan’s whereabouts has not left a good impression.

That’s exactly the point though.

“The woman known to us as the Vipress had plenty of chances to stop Mr Wick,” the Adjudicator answers; an expected explanation, a pitiless one, too. “She failed. Even though she is one of the few individuals realistically capable of such a feat. Therefore, under our assessment, there is nothing here to celebrate.”

Winston turns, lowering his whiskey glass back onto the table. He leans back towards it, completely relaxed, his palms resting against the edges of the smooth wood.

“Loyalty,” he muses lightly, letting the word hang in the air for a bit. “Such rarity nowadays, would you not agree? It is rather difficult to stay neutral when you have an emotional investment in both parties caught in the conflict.”

The Adjudicator stands at that, their willowy frame stretching to their full height. Little sympathy can be found in their stony expression. “Only loyalty to the High Table should matter. The Vipress has shown to have very little of it. Now, Mr D’Antonio?”

He didn’t expect this to be easy. But he doesn’t let so much as a whisper of his exasperation show. Winston considers, calculating what harm could be done versus the gap of time it might buy him, hesitating for only a beat before dipping his head in agreement.

“Of course, follow me,” he says pleasantly, gesturing with his arm. “He came out of surgery several days ago.”

Over the Adjudicator’s shoulder, a faint glint of surprise shows on Charon’s face before the man blinks it away swiftly. The concierge knows better than to question outright. Old and tested loyalty lives between them. The manager always does things for a reason, and the concierge follows graciously every time because he knows as much.

The Adjudicator stalks after him silently, Charon a few steps behind them. The elevator ride down is silent and tense. No need for empty exchanges between them and neither party bothers pretending otherwise.

Only a day left on the clock. Then he’s expected to step back and leave his hotel—his legacy—behind to some stranger the Table deems worthy. The thought alone almost makes him scoff again.

The High Table can take the Continental from his cold, dead hands.

And he imagines there are at least one or two individuals who may have something to say about that.

_You have contributed to the chaos, little hatchling, but what now?_ _You can’t win this game by sacrificing your Queen._

The elevator halts with a rumble. Worn metal creaks. Winston reaches out, pulling back the metal partition. The white hallways of the medical wing are silent and undisturbed by the bustle of the front foyer. Heaviness hangs in the air as he strolls down the long stretch of white, his shoes clicking against the spotless flooring. Charon and the Adjudicator are only several steps behind him but he’s in no hurry.

They round the corner and three heads turn in their direction.

The fourth doesn’t move.

_Here we go. _

Camorra’s Elite Four sit like guard dogs of the most vicious variety at the end of the lengthy hallway. Behind them stands a door. Behind that door, Winston knows, Santino D’Antonio now lays, clinging to his life and healing. Hopefully. He couldn’t care less about the Italian living or dying, but for your sake, he needs the arrogant man to pull through. 

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

The tallest and broadest of the guards is leaning against the wall but pushes away from it upon their approach, uncrossing his arms as he stops in their path. The first line of defence. 

Another—the sharpshooter, if Winston recalls correctly—rises a second behind that, lowering a gleaming pistol he was fiddling with. Eyes narrowed, distrustful.

The youngest—_the smiling nightmare_, as you’ve called him once—doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor, a laptop in his lap. A pop of chewing gum fills the silence when he glances up lazily at the commotion over his round sunglasses.

And finally closest to the door—nearest to the Camorra boss, always the most vicious and final deterrent—stands the Devil of Camorra. He doesn’t look at them. He almost appears thoughtful, playing with a lighter in his hand as he leans against the wall.

_Click, click, click._

“Can we help you?” the tallest asks politely, his Italian accent faint but still noticeable.

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

A polite, unspoken warning hangs in the air. The woman—D’Antonio’s bodyguard that you’ve called a good friend on many occasions—appears to be missing. Though Winston doubts she’s far behind. He’s seen her by the Italian side for almost as many years as he’s seen you.

The Adjudicator speaks before he can. “I wish to see the Camorra family head, and the new member of the High Table, Santino D’Antonio.”

“Respectfully, who are you supposed to be?” the sharpshooter demands, his dark eyes narrowing marginally.

Loyal. To a degree at least. Winston had been hopeful they would be. He’s not surprised to see them standing guard, either. He’s betting on them continuing doing so.

“An Adjudicator,” the youngest quips from his spot on the floor, his fingers clicking across the keyboard. Another pop of gum follows. “Sent to adjudicate this hotel, I bet. _Bang, bang_—not a good look for the sturdy, old table. _Seccante_.”

The Adjudicator’s head slants; a calculating motion. “The Chameleon of Camorra,” they state flatly, unimpressed. “Former association with an organisation known as Slifer before Giovanni D’Antonio recruited you to Camorra’s ranks, correct?”

The young man in question drops his head back with a gleaming smile. The tattoos across his neck ripple with the gesture, and a gleam of white appears even brighter in the artificial light. 

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, amused. “Papi Giovanni welcomed me with open arms.”

There is clearly more to this tale. The implication is blatant even if the words are presented as a joke but Winston can still read it.

“You can’t see him.”

All eyes slide towards the Camorra Devil. His voice is gravelly, uncompromising, and he still doesn’t bother looking at them. Part arrogance, Winston imagines, and part genuine disinterest with them and the situation. 

“I have the right—”

“We have orders not to let anyone see Santino until he’s fit enough to take back command.”

At long last, the Devil turns towards them. The look in his icy eyes is a clear, if barely polite, warning. The man called Hector always had a reputation for being Giovanni’s most violent lapdog. Serving Camorra for years without a single falter. That level of loyalty is admittedly rare, especially when Winston knows others have tried to recruit the Devil in the past.

Hector, unlike you, has never been bound by a debt that kept him chained to Camorra. He stays because he wants to. If there are any other reasons for that loyalty, they’re unknown to the manager.

Though Winston has never interacted with the leader of the Elite’s, he’s heard plenty about him, and can understand why his name is spoken with trepidation. Despite it being subtle, the air around the man is still hostile. Brimming with a promise of violence.

“Whose orders?” the Adjudicator interrogates. “The council of Camorra—”

Whatever card they were hoping to play gets crushed in seconds.

“Our current acting boss. The Vipress,” the Devil announces, sounding annoyed, and pockets his lighter before pushing away from the wall. Another pop of gum ripples from the youngest Elite. Hector prowls closer, deliberately slow, and walks past the other two members of the guard. The Devil halts in front of the Adjudicator, appearing utterly bored. “You might be familiar with her. Stubborn, demanding, likes knives a little too much, starts shit wherever she goes. Santino named her his heir. No one is allowed to see him on _her_ orders.”

Winston has to bite back a small smile. _Perfect_.

The Adjudicator stands completely still, their stare hard while they process the new information.

The manager hangs back, not saying a word, watching the silent face-off with vague amusement. He has to admit that at least the Devil doesn’t lack nerve. The other three don’t appear nearly as intimidated as they should be, either.

Adjudicators are feared for a reason. They have a vast reserve of power bestowed upon them by the highest tiers of the Table. Adjudicators stand even above Continental managers. Something Winston has been rather unpleasantly reminded of with Johnathan’s latest actions.

“The will of the Table stands above the individual order of someone who has been made Excommunicado.”

Mild but icy. Clearly, the not-so-subtle defiance from the Devil of Camorra hasn’t gone down well, either. Behind the tall man, the other two shift in their spots, tense. An exaggerated sigh sounds from behind them, and the chameleon rises to his feet as well. Cracking his neck, he strolls towards his associates, leaning his shoulder against the sharpshooter. The other man doesn’t so much as blink, clearly used to such antics.

“_We_ answer to the will of the Camorra boss _only_,” Hector informs coolly, his tone just barely passing for polite. “We have since the beginning of Camorra family inception.”

_We don’t answer to you_, goes unsaid but the double meaning is clear. Winston straightens, a touch surprised. He wasn’t aware that such a divide existed between the highest tier of Camorra members and a top-level High Table representative. He wonders if it’s more so the threat to their boss—the last D’Antonio left to carry the bloodline that founded Camorra centuries ago—or simple dislike that is driving such blatant disobedience.

The manager sincerely doubts that this refusal to comply is born out of genuine loyalty towards you or respect for your command. Especially from the Devil who holds no loyalties other than one towards Camorra.

The Adjudicator’s head dips, their short black hair appearing even darker in the bright light.

“There are rules. You are not above them,” they speak briskly, softly. “_No one_ is above them. You are all bound to the will of the Table and exist _under_ it.”

Another obnoxiously loud pop of the gum and the youngest of the Elite’s grins. “Actually we’re _part_ of the Table,” he notes nonchalantly, but there is something icy about the slight edge to his grin. Distantly, Winston recalls you telling him that from all the Elites, it’s the chameleon you won’t want as your enemy the most. “Take one leg out and the whole table wobbles.”

The silence that follows those words is stifling. No one speaks or moves.

“No rules have been broken,” Hector eventually bites out, blunt but controlled. “We’re just guarding our boss. Shouldn’t you be commending our loyalty, huh?”

An unexpected bait but not one the Adjudicator rises to. Their expression remains steely, their eyes dragging over the Camorra Four before they finally turn away.

“Very well,” they intone flatly, their eyes narrowing marginally, and their tone dismissive. “Next time I will return with a direct order to stand down.”

“You do that,” the Devil shoots back without missing a beat.

The Adjudicator pauses, their eyes flickering back towards the man, digging into him for a moment before their attention drops away. Winston remains composed when the Adjudicator’s stare moves to him next, cold as ice, an unspoken burn of anger present in their eyes. Clearly, they’re not very used to not being heeded.

“I will be in my room.”

The Adjudicator doesn’t stick around to see if anyone has anything to say about that. They turn to go without sparing anyone another word, their steps brisk and sharp, betraying the displeasure absent from their frosty expression.

It’s quiet while they all stand, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps and, eventually, the whirl of the elevator going up.

It’s only then that the Elites relax, their guarded demeanours easing a bit.

“So mean spirited,” the chameleon mutters under his breath, unimpressed, and turns to go back to his laptop. “Exhausting.”

“Gentlemen.”

Winston nods his head at the Devil specifically, but Hector only grunts under his breath with a roll of his eyes. Briefly, he glances at Charon, his eyes narrowing before he turns away and stalks back to his previous spot.

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

The other two—the sharpshooter and the strength—return his nod, polite but stiff.

Winston tips his head in their direction one last time, and turns on his heels to go. No one stops him, and Charon trails after the manager a few seconds later.

It’s only when they both step into the elevator, the door closing softly behind them, that Charon finally speaks, “Nicely done, sir.”

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

“It’s only a temporary deterrent, I’m afraid,” he admits and knows he’s right. If the Adjudicator does get that order the Four will not be enough. “The hatchling?”

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

“The last sighting was reported as the Moroccan Continental, sir.”

There is a tickle of relief followed by a sting of concern. “Good. Then she as good as made it.”

He’s still not quite sure how he feels about the idea, however.

“If I may, sir,” Charon begins as if sensing the manager’s unease. “You do not look pleased about that.”

There is no point in trying to deny it, so Winston doesn’t.

“Not at all,” he agrees smoothly, feeling the elevator halt and the concierge moves ahead, opening the partition for them. “If it had been up to me, she never would have had to go back there. But she’s been reckless and manoeuvred herself into a corner with only one ace left to play. Herself.”

Seven years in this world. Seven long years of fighting for freedom and now there is a reputation that has been built upon that desperation. A reputation that has attracted all sorts of attention over the years.

Charon both looks and sounds troubled while they walk through the lobby. “Is there a reason for concern, sir?”

All these moving pieces forming an ever-shifting pattern. Something has been brewing for a while now. Winston can’t help but feel like he’s missing and not seeing something crucial. Like all those pieces are put together at a slightly wrong angle, disorientating the whole picture.

_What will you do now, little hatchling?_

The Elder. That history between you, that story you shared—they all weigh heavily on the manager’s mind. Always have.

He comes to a gradual stop.

“Oh, yes,” he mutters, pensive, shaking his head as he glances at the concierge beside him with open unease. “Most certainly.”

* * *

Every breath takes notable effort.

Your instincts pinprick, trying to acclimate to the too-familiar surroundings—count and anticipate any potential threats. Everything about being back here feels so familiar it is its own kind of torture.

Your skin itches. One side of your face and hands—everywhere the scorching sun has managed to touch you the most—stretches uncomfortably with every twitch of your muscles. It’s a discomfort that comes with sunburns often earned in an unforgiving terrain like the desert, and you try to lick your dry lips, lifting your head. Your vision swims immediately, an explosion of vivid spots blinding you, and you careen dangerously to one side, hissing under your breath.

Eyes track every jerk of your body, and you know full well you’re not alone in this tent.

You’re almost afraid to look at him. Then feel idiotic for feeling that way. Maybe it’s because you had hoped that this chapter of your life was shut and laid to rest long ago, and it’s a hard pill to swallow, knowing that he was right after all.

“Drink.”

It’s then that you notice a cup sitting on a small, wooden table to the side. Part of you wants to cackle till you choke when you realise it’s the same green cup you drank from during your first test with him years ago.

Gathering yourself, you reach for the cup despite your dread, your digits folding around it carefully.

The drink inside smells minty and fresh but you don’t find anything amiss with it on the first inspection. A vague recollection of a similar scent tickling your senses when you were coming in and out of consciousness comes crawling back. With that in mind, you finally tip the cup down, taking a purposeful sip.

It empties in three slow gulps and you lower it back onto the table, still silent. It does make you feel better instantly, lifting the dense fog that was previously crushing your mind. A sense of déjà vu nips at your senses but you push it back. Not much point in delaying this. Though it doesn’t surprise you that he gave you time to gather yourself. 

Kindness with this man, you have long since learned, comes in the smallest of gestures. Tiniest of moments.

Drawing your knees closer, you sit up slowly, your head lowered.

“Why have you come?”

His words send a shiver down your spine that has little to do with heat. You’ve forgotten how much quiet power always rings through his baritone. His smooth, accented words wash over you like a tidal wave; gentle as they are dangerous. Misleading with their softness.

Swallowing, you force your limbs to obey you—to shift the worn muscles into an appropriate position. One knee digs into the carpet beneath you, your hands lacing over your bent thigh when you reposition yourself into a kneeling position. Your head is still lowered and you realise, then, that it isn’t fear of punishment that’s forcing you to stare at the ground. 

It’s him.

He once managed to get under your guard with startling ease and you scrubbed him away. Walked away from him and everything he offered. Tried to forget him despite the cracks. Your choice had made you feel powerful back then. In control. Despite there being a part of you that had longed to stay, you never quite regretted your decision to leave.

Worst, perhaps, is the knowledge that it wasn’t one-sided. You weren’t foolishly pining after the most powerful man in the world. You weren’t naively seeing something that didn’t exist. If anything, his interest in you had been more obvious from the start.

“I—” you mumble, near choking on your suddenly heavy tongue and mangled thoughts. “I came to seek repentance for my actions.”

Silence follows your muffled words and you stare at the ruby ring on your hand intently.

Will he turn you away? Consider you naive and foolish for hoping there’s some semblance of hope?

And where is John? Did he only pick you up and not him? Your weapons—what few you still have—are still on you because you can feel them against your body with every inhale and exhale.

Your empty stomach rolls and you have to bite back the acid welling at the back of your throat the longer you wait. The thrumming of your own heart almost drowns out his voice when the answer does finally come.

“Stand, viper,” the Elder states calmly. “You do not grovel at my feet.”

And just like that your breaths calm. Your dread ebbs like sea waves receding. With his words, you remember that you met as equals and parted as such despite you unearthing his true identity.

He’s right. You don’t grovel at his feet. Or anyone’s.

You stand at once, balancing on your heels, and square your shoulders. The lock of your jaw is a firm one, your stare steady and the steel in your stance returns easily. In that, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Straightening, you look ahead and meet his inquisitive stare evenly.

This time the sight that greets you is befitting the man who rules the High Table. This is how you had expected him to be the first time you met. A golden chair that reminds you more of a throne, and extravagant robes that breathe wealth and showcase his status. Surrounded by his people in a subtle warning though you know he can more than hold his own.

He oozes that unnerving authority but his face is still familiar. Few years have passed since you’ve last seen him, yet he barely looks any different. If it weren’t for several new lines creasing his face, you would have thought that time has simply paused here while you’ve been gone.

The quiet intensity of his heated regard hasn’t changed, either. Nor has the unease or the thrill that comes with having his complete attention on you.

He watches you unblinkingly and you find yourself swallowing again, an immovable knot sitting in your throat.

“Here you are.”

It’s a soft, thoughtful statement and you’re not quite sure what to make of his words or his demeanour, so you settle on a simple, “Here I am.”

He stands at that, his robes rustling in the wake of his sudden movement. His steps are measured and leisurely as he approaches. The Elder’s stare takes every inch of you in and you don’t lower your eyes. He doesn’t look particularly pleased with what he finds and you can’t help but wonder why. 

It still kills a small part of you. That you had to come back but only because you need a favour from him. Not because you returned to join him or even visit him, if you even could.

A part of you…

“I thought that maybe…” you mutter when he halts before you—all heat, spice, and that razor-sharp gaze that seems to burn into you—his hands lacing in front of him as he watches you keenly. “That maybe you forgot about me.”

It’s been years after all. You’re just you. One person in a machine so much larger than yourself. If Elder considered Tarasov to be nothing more than a piece in a more elaborate game years ago—at the near height of his power—then you couldn’t have possibly been that important. Or even noteworthy. He might have thought highly of you once but that was then.

His expression, however, gives you an answer before he can verbally do so.

“How could I?” he questions curiously, softly. As if the concept of forgetting you is truly an inconceivable one for him.

You work your tongue, trying to think of something to say, something clever, but nothing comes.

You simply stare up at him mutely, taking him in, and he you, and it does indeed feel like no time has passed between you. Even though so much is different now.

“I almost came back. Once,” you confess in a breathless rush, blinking rapidly because it’s hard to keep a straight expression under that scrutiny. “I got desperate and angry and…”

And Tarasov won’t let you help Camorra with the Albanians. Had treated you like nothing more than a dog, reminding you of your place. Dependant on his goodwill of which he had none. So you had ran like a reckless idiot. Sick and tired of being dependent on his word. Hoping for his mercy or any crumb of kindness.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply, a secret for you alone. “I waited for you.”

Air escapes your lungs at that mild admittance. At the way his eyes drag over your features, savouring but still guarded—always guarded. Everywhere from your eyes, to the dip of your collarbone, and the bow of your lips. There are others scattered around the tent but it feels like you’re the only ones here.

The golden hue of his eyes glints with knowing light at your reaction, and you force your tongue to work, “I wish to explain myself.”

He nods his head once. Prompt as it is anticipatory. You imagine that to him this is all playing out exactly as he’d been expecting it to. You’re back but a part of you is mangled exactly like he predicted it would be. Vengeance has led you here. Tarasov may be dead but you have only dug yourself into a deeper hole.

“You came all this way,” he says knowingly, his head slanting and lips thinning into an enigmatic half-smile. “Speak freely, viper.”

Your eyes, in return, sweep warily over others inside the tent. Some familiar faces. Others are unknown to you. Only pointed stares and blank expressions greet your curiosity. Inscrutable, severe stares that judge your every move and word. Saad is nowhere to be seen. That surprises you but you don’t let it show.

The Elder notes your wariness, not bothering to look away from you when he commands a soft, “Leave us.”

As one, everyone inside the tent rises. They don’t question, nor do they linger. They file out in a neat line, their robes rustling in the breeze, and you stare after them, surprised. You didn’t expect him to dismiss everyone solely because you felt uneasy talking to him with others around. Although seeing the space clear out is, admittedly, a relief.

Now it’s you two alone and it changes the air between you again. This puts you back in time, even if you try to remain unaffected.

But it’s hard not to. A part of you still sees him as Rafik. A man you have spent endless hours talking to about everything and nothing—a man you considered close to you—despite knowing full well that Rafik isn’t even his real name. In fact, you have no idea what his name is. Or who he is. Not really. He’s still just layers upon layers of mystery. Power. Ancient and tangible.

The way he gazes at you makes you think that isn’t the case, however. There is warmth woven into his regard, an almost fondness that despite being muted is clear to you.

The darkness of that stare is arresting when he reaches out, the warmth of his fingertips ghosting over your bandaged ear. You don’t hold back your wince of pain, pulling away from the contact.

The Elder’s mouth slants downwards at that, his eyes narrowing marginally. He looks thoughtful, displeased almost. The shadow across his expression is new to you. You’ve seen him as many things but tense and unhappy is not one of them.

“What have they done to you?”

It’s a quiet question—a collection of sharp, hard syllables—dragging themselves from somewhere deeper, you can tell.

Your lips part, ready to tell him everything but you stop yourself at once. How would he even look at you if you knew what you did? There would be no chance of forgiveness then. If he knew how badly you broke the very rules he enforces upon everyone in their world repeatedly.

With that in mind, you instead settle on a weak, “Guess you were right.”

_Do not let that fire consume you._

He was right. He was always going to be right, you were just too blind and proud to admit it. 

His expression strains, his touch dropping away, and a glint catches your eye when his hand lowers. You feel a thud against your ribcage, and focus on that golden skin, barely breathing to a point his next words hardly register.

“This is not something I wished to be right about,” he says unhappily.

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

He pauses. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out what you mean by that. The pad of his index finger brushes over the ring he’s wearing absentmindedly. The golden plate seems to gleam at the touch despite neither of you standing in direct sunlight.

“It was a gift,” he says gently in return, his features guarded once more. “A parting gift from you.”

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

On your last day together, when you visited Casablanca together, you had gotten it for him after arguing Saad out of some local currency under the guise of buying something for yourself. A souvenir as far as he knew back then. But the ring had caught your eye first. Handmade ring crafted out of pale golden metal. It reminded you of the sun that is his presence and the endless stretches of sand surrounding you.

Grinning, and more than a little unsure, you had presented it to him when you sat on the beach together, calling it a thank you present because you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about leaving just yet. He had accepted it readily, his fingers lingering against yours when he took it, and even back then you couldn’t quite describe the emotion you glimpsed across his face.

You hadn’t dared to assume it was wonder back then, but it had been a close thing.

You certainly didn’t expect him to keep it after you left.

Or to still be wearing it after all these years. But maybe you’re jumping to conclusions and he’s only wearing it today. Specifically for this.

The silence between you changes yet again, morphing. Something more charged. Near oppressive.

Nerves flutter inside your tired body and you allow a soft wisp of breath to escape you, thinking of something to break the tension with. 

“Where is John?” you question quietly, your voice thick.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, staring out towards the horizon.

“Mr Wick is safe,” he answers coolly. “Do not fret for him. He will answer for his wrongdoings in due time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Elder turns to face you again, and it unnerves you because he keeps slipping between the man you lived with for months, and the man who controls the High Table. One is close to you, familiar. The other feels removed, walled off. No longer a sun but a cold, distant star. Unreachable to you.

His expression softens a touch when he notices your startled expression.

“Mr Wick has returned only to unleash havoc,” he informs you calmly, matter of factly. He doesn’t sound or look angry or even displeased, yet something about the piercing gleam in his eyes makes you think that it will not be a confrontation without consequences. “His punishment will reflect that. He made the decisions that led him here,” he fades off, pausing, his stare flickering over your features once more. “As have you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, shaking your head, cringing slightly at the pain that flares through your skin at that. “They’re both important to me and—”

“I am not speaking about Santino D’Antonio getting shot, viper.”

Your head snaps up, your features slacking with confusion. “Then what...”

The Elder lifts his hand, his attention focusing on the ring on his finger instead. He seems to struggle with something internally before sighing softly and dragging his stare away from you once more. You wonder why. It’s almost as if it’s difficult for him to look at you.

“Do not tell me you were so quick to forget my warning to you,” he begins calmly, something aloof lingering in his voice. He walks past you, his fingertips tapping on his ring repeatedly. Your own fingers tighten into a fist when you note the shift in him, the Camorra ring pressing into your skin as a bleak reminder. Your eyes follow him as he goes, watching his broad back when he stops at the edge of the tent, looking out towards the vastness of the desert. “I told you what will happen if anything befalls Viggo Tarasov before your debt is repaid.”

Ice pierces you, burrowing under your skin viciously, and you’re glad that he can’t see your face because for a second your expression comes apart completely.

“I did not—”

“Do you really think I know you so little that _lying_ to me would work?”

Your mouth snaps shut, a bitter tang stinging the inside of your mouth. He’s right. You feel as disappointed in yourself as he sounds. You’ve always prided yourself on being forward and direct. Yet your instinct now had been to lie, to deny, because the idea of him knowing terrifies you.

Because it puts you in so much worse of a position than what you first expected to be in.

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

“I know why you came here,” he says, at last, turning to face you again. His expression is grim and he watches you closely as he strolls closer. Despite his leisurely gait, his stare is searing. “You came in hopes that I would lift the Excommunicado. You came in hopes that you can clear your name. But your crimes run deeper than you are willing to admit to me.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” you assume blankly. “Is that it?”

He shakes his head once. “No, viper,” he responds placidly, his eyebrows knitting. “You have disappointed yourself. You are so much better than this. Yet your recklessness has led you to this. Did you really think that I would not find out?”

He comes to a stop before you again and you meet his stare.

There is no point in lying, so you don’t.

“If you knew,” you start, choked, forcing down your emotions as you search his face, and try to quieten the pounding of your heart. “Then why was I not declared Excommunicado sooner?”

A long beat of suffocating silence, and then, “Because I shielded you.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s as expected as the sun rising each morning. A faint knell of wind chimes fills the hush between you this time, and you peer at him in disbelief. Shock.

“What?” you exhale shakily.

The Elder shakes his head once, sighing. “I gave you a chance in hopes that you will take it and savour your new freedom,” he explains smoothly, his fingertips still dancing over the ring. His strong profile only accents his handsomeness and you see the conflict there—see the shadows dancing inside the inky pools that are his eyes. “I overlooked your wrongdoing. Because I understood your pain then as I do now. I cautioned the Table to look the other way. But what did you do with this gift, viper? You wasted it. And there is nothing to be done now. Even I cannot shield you from the storm that has been unleashed. The scale has been tipped towards chaos now. You broke the rules in the open, for the whole world to see,” he continues, each word making your heart beat harder inside your chest, his attention returning to you, “And now here you are.”

So that’s why.

Why there was such a long pause between Tarasov’s death and administration contacting you about you being free of your debt. The silence that made you so uneasy back then. The High Table _had_ been suspicious, _had_ assumed you played a part, but the Elder pulled their attention away from you.

Years later, he’s still looking out for you.

You’re too speechless to say much past gaping at him; a thousand thoughts fluttering through your mind, all of them wild and hurtful.

Your attention falls to the carpet beneath your feet, and stays there for some time while you digest what this means.

He _knows_. He’s known for weeks now.

Just like that the already shaky foundation beneath your feet slips further.

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

Consequences. Everything has a price and it was foolish of you to assume that your luck will continue. You’ve been too quick to celebrate and now...

“What now?”

A whisper of material sounds in your ears and the heat of his palm comes to rest against one side of your face. You feel that warmth sink deep into your skin and it burns. Both a physical ache and something deeper. Your eyes open as he guides your face upwards for him to see.

You lean on the side of caution and say nothing, waiting for him to speak first. 

“Now, my viper,” he whispers, a touch forlorn. “You face the consequences of your actions.”

Forcing down your fear, you give him a firm, unyielding, “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.”

His palm pulls back but not all the way. His knuckles trace over the curve of your cheek—so faint you barely register the sensation. “I would never kill you.”

“But?”

He seems to be considering something hard, his regard in a constant flux between warring emotions, “But you cannot be seen as walking away without punishment after what’s happened. It is the way of things,” he finally concludes.

You pull away from his touch, your eyes burning, “So be it,” you mutter, shaky and forcefully casual. “But I don’t regret stepping in. I don’t regret _any_ of it. I would do it all again.”

Even if it meant the pain and the heartache. Sleepless nights and blood.

Because at least they’re all alive. Even if this is the sacrifice for that victory.

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

Your attention snaps back to him at the gentle murmur of his question. There is little distance between you—to a point you can feel the heat of his broad build and the phantom sensation of his exhales against your skin.

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

Deep down, you know it’s not so simple to untangle who means what to you anymore. It’s a mess of different emotions and loyalties. Everyone in your life that has made themselves a place in it, you love fiercely. Even if they’re all different kinds of love. All you know—all you need to know—is that you would gladly stand here for any of them. Punishment and consequences be damned.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure why you expect him to be irritated, perhaps even disappointed in your answer, but he only seems to consider your words for a while.

Fierce desert heat rolls across your skin while you wait for a response but he seems to be in no rush to provide you with one. His lips part, his head lowering and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat; half-disbelieving, and half-thoughtful. 

“How odd,” he muses faintly, his features drawing into something desolate. “I do not quite recall the last time I felt envy.”

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to push his words and the emotion in them away. He means that genuinely, and you know that. You’ve lived with him for months and have seen a great many sides to him. That loneliness—that drive to be something more, to be understood by someone else—is what drew you together in the first place. Bonded you as deeply as it did.

Despite the nip of sadness you feel for him, you don’t contradict him—don’t say anything at all, in fact.

“What is it that you want from me?”

The Elder appears lost in his head for a while before he finally responds, “You already know, viper,” he says in a knowing murmur. “Otherwise you would not look at me with such sadness in your eyes.”

“You want me to stay.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a slight nod, his previous melancholy receding, and his guard slipping back on. “It is the only way that your life can be spared. Your service to the High Table will be used to absolve you of your crimes.”

You can’t quite help the bitter, brief laugh that slips free from you. “And is love a crime? I’m being punished for caring. For wanting to keep my family safe.”

He doesn’t say anything but you can guess what he’s thinking.

You broke the rules. Killed Tarasov. Interfered when you could have killed John and proven your loyalty to the High Table. Rules apply to all—no exceptions.

You don’t want to think about what would be the outcome if he knew about Chicago as well. Then, you conclude numbly, even his favour won’t save you from death.

“For how long?”

The Elder doesn’t reply. _You already know_, his expression seems to say though, and your composure fractures. Sucking in a deep breath, you chew on your inner cheek, half-turning away from him.

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice gentle. “You will become my fourth disciple, and my apprentice, working directly under me,” he explains carefully, watching you just as closely, and you fight to keep a straight expression. “I am sorry, (Name), I wish there had been another way. But we are each masters of our own fate. You gave this life a chance once before and you embraced it effortlessly.”

You know that. You know that compared to what could have happened, this is a mercy. He will treat you fairly, kindly, and you’ve almost made this place, his people, your new life once before. If anything, on the surface alone, this is more of a gift than a punishment, especially with the amount of power you will gain by joining him.

And yet.

This also means that you will rarely, if ever, see your friends and family again.

Everyone you love and care for will be removed from you. People who join the Elder don’t go back to their old lives. Service to the High Table becomes their new life. The tribe, their new family.

No Winston or Charon. Santino or John. No Ares or the Elites. No Sofia or Cassian.

Just no one.

The tear you feel in your heart at that thought nearly makes you choke on a sob. For all the physical agony you’ve been through in these last several weeks, this somehow hurts the most. The notion that you will never see them again, will never get to touch them or laugh with them, is _agonising_. Somehow it hurts even more than the realisation that you will be bound yet again, unable to be free, unable to live for yourself just like you always dreamt of.

A hand reaches for you but you stumble back a step, still not looking at him. 

“You will not be my prisoner, viper,” he tells you seriously. “I would never take that from you. But you—”

“Can never see them again, is that it?” you cut him off sharply.

You know he’s not used to being spoken to like that. You doubt anyone has even tried but when you lift your eyes to his, you notice how his own features smoothen in response to what he sees on your face. The grief and the pain. The raw, suffocating grip of it shackling you and dragging you _down, down, down_—

He doesn’t deny your words, however, and that’s answer enough.

“I know this is hard,” he says instead, and you think that sympathy you spy in his dark eyes is genuine, well-meant. “But I warned you where this path will lead you. You did not listen.”

It doesn’t help though.

God, it hurts so much. This is somehow worse than when John left. Worse even, is the fact that you have no one to blame. Not even the Elder. You did this yourself. Went into this fully knowing there is a chance it will all blow up in your face.

“Can I at least...say goodbye?” you wonder, your words thin, and inhale deeply despite the dry, hot air giving you little relief. “Spend some time with them before I leave?”

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

You shake your head, stepping closer towards him. “Six months.”

His head slants; a colder, more authoritative motion. “Are you bargaining with me, viper?”

There is no hesitation in your reply, not this time, “Yes.”

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

It’s a curious question as opposed to condescending. Almost as if he’s trying to gauge how you will react, and you force your emotions back, licking your lips once. Your thumb smoothes against the inside of the metal band on your hand.

“I’m the acting boss of Camorra,” you remind him, straightening your shoulders once more despite the way you can feel your pulse fluttering against the base of your neck. You’re not sure if it betrays you but you certainly don’t let it show. “And I would respectfully ask that you give me six months. It will not change anything in the long run.”

The Elder’s attention drifts towards your hand, and he closes whatever little distance there is between you, reaching for it. You tense despite yourself when he carefully takes your clenched fist into his palm and lifts it between you. His thumb traces over your bruised knuckle—a tender, careful touch as if not to hurt you further—and a pensive hum slips free as he stares at the ring on your hand.

“You wear power beautifully,” he comments idly, and you have to hold back a shiver at the feeling of his thumb continuously journeying over your skin; nothing more than a tickle, a promise of warmth. The touch hurts as much as it soothes. “Three months. Offered to you _only_ because you dare where others don’t. Because I am not unreasonable and while this is a punishment, I do not wish to see you unhappy.”

_Too late for that_ nearly escapes you but you bite your tongue.

Three months. Just three. It will pass in a blink and then…

A lifetime away from everything you love, everything that is home and safety. Everything that’s important to you. 

“May...may I have a moment?” you request weakly. “Just to…”

He releases his grip on your hand and it falls to your side heavily. “Of course,” he voices graciously. “I will be back shortly but take the time you need.”

He steps past you once more but this time he heads towards the direction other men had left in earlier. He doesn’t pause and he doesn’t turn back to look at you, his gait slow but self-assured. You wait till his broad back disappears from your sight before you feel your expression crumble completely.

Pressing a hand against your face, you ignore the flare of pain where you dig too hard into your sunburnt skin. Instead, you focus everything inside yourself on controlling your despair and tears. You can’t fall apart now. Not after how far you’ve come and all you’ve been through.

Shuddering breaths wheeze past your mouth and nose, your shoulders quivering. Better to allow yourself this weakness now, alone, than to let the Elder or anyone see this slip.

Your shaking hands drag themselves away from your face and mouth, and your palm pushes against your breastbone. Beneath the material of your jumpsuit and skin, your heart hammers inside your chest like a wild beast desperate to escape. So afraid of the chain once again.

But what can you do? There is no other option. No escape. Nowhere to run, and even if you did, such action would only paint a bigger target on people closest to you. The only thing you would do by running is reassuring their demise.

The heel of your palm presses harsher against your sternum, maybe in some naive hope that you can tear your own heart out and it would be—

_Oh_.

You still, an unsettling sort of hush falling over you when a dark, insidious whisper slithers into your mind after all. You keep your palm close against the curve of your breast and _think_.

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

But your mind and instincts go to battle at once. One side arguing for it and other against it. If you _succeed_...but if you _fail_…

But what other choice is there? Servitude or death? _No_.

A frustrated sound tears from the back of your throat and you drop your hand, standing to your full height, your eyes squeezing shut.

No. No, you will not let this pass. You will no longer be controlled. You’ve had _enough_.

Fuck consequences. You will deal with them as they come. You shouldn’t be punished for killing the man who took everything from you in the first place. You should not be punished for saving someone you care for—for interfering.

Your blunt nails bite into your palms to a point of pain despite that resolve. Because digging through that determination and rage is fear. Very simple human fear but you bottle it and shove it deep down.

No time for that now.

_Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it._

And that’s exactly it.

Lose _everything_.

Just like that your taut limbs relax, the pounding inside your head retreating and dulling into a muffled buzz. You step forward one slow step at the time before dropping heavily onto the very throne you woke up to find the Elder sitting on.

Your eyes flutter close and you mull over the new path you’re about to step on, bowing your head in acceptance. So much for dreams of freedom. Your fingers ghost over your collarbone again and you smile this time; a cold, broken fragment of a smile.

Eyes closed, you listen to the sounds of the desert for a while, calming yourself. Wind against silk and tapestries. Faintest of _whooshes_ caused by wind teasing sand away from the outer surface of dunes surrounding the camp. Sandorms, at least, you have not missed.

Deep down you can’t help but think that you always knew how this was going to end.

_People like us don’t get happy endings._

You ignore the ache inside your chest at the memory of Santino’s face, focusing instead on clearing your mind.

It takes at least another ten minutes before muted footsteps sound from ahead of you. You don’t lift your head at his approach, your arms hanging limp between your parted legs.

He pauses when he sees you. You suppose it’s rude, what you’re doing, sitting on his throne like it’s your own.

This time, you’re the one to tilt your head to one side, looking up at him from under your lashes.

The Elder doesn’t appear angry at your nerve to sit on his throne though. No rigidness to be found in his expression or slanting of his full mouth, not even a pinching of his brows; all telltale signs of his discontent usually. In fact, his eyes drag over your figure, lingering everywhere despite the distance.

For a man who doesn’t let others close, rarely lets his guard down in general, his appreciation—dare you say it, desire—is abundantly clear.

Jaw clamped tightly shut, you rise to your feet unhurriedly. Far steadier than you expected yourself to be capable of, and he steps closer towards you as well. Slow, bordering on cautious, and you wonder why. It’s like he’s afraid to blink lest you disappear.

But maybe that’s precisely it. Maybe he’s been hoping to walk into this tent and find you here every day since you’ve been gone. And now that you are here, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“How are you feeling?” he asks curiously, his accented words warming you like the setting sun, and you wonder what it may feel like to hear that voice for the rest of your life.

No turning back now.

Swallowing thickly, you ignore the pulsing numbness locking your throat, and wait for him to halt in front of you before you speak.

“I accept.”

A light sparks in his eyes—something burning and near living in its intensity, an emotion you have only glimpsed once before—as they roam over your features in search of an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.

“Three months,” you begin purposely, rushing your words out in a breathless whisper. He’s so close there’s hardly any distance between you at all—no room to turn away nor do you want to. The turquoise of his turban only seems to bring out the beauty of his dark eyes and golden skin. Draw you closer. He, too, hardly seems to be breathing while he listens to your words intently. “Then I come back here. To you. And stay. I will give this a chance but I can’t promise that it...will not be hard. In return…”

“The Excommunicado will be lifted upon your return to New York,” he reassures, still searching for something in your expression. “You have my word.”

His eyes lower and he breathes another sigh in a rare show of uncertainty.

“What is it?” you can’t help but wonder, confused.

“What proof do I have that you will uphold your word, viper?” he questions mildly, his probing stare digging into you. That challenging, clever stare that first got the warning bells ringing inside your head that this is not a man to be trifled with. “What will you give me in a show of fealty?”

You don’t say anything, peering up at him silently.

Seeing that, the Elder’s eyes slide towards your bare neck, and stop there. A second later, his strong fingers trace over the curve of the silver chain around your neck—

“No,” you choke out desperately, your hand snapping up to grip his own when his fingers slip around the metal. “Please, it’s not mine to give away.”

It’s Santino’s. When he gave it to you, over a year ago now, he asked to guard it for him, keep it safe. Even then, you knew it meant more to him than he would ever admit outright. You’re not quite sure where it comes from or who it belongs to but you have a strong inkling, and the idea of giving it away makes you feel sick to your stomach.

The Elder hesitates at your fragile plea, your eyes locking again, and fingers touching. “Yet it is important to you.”

More than he knows and certainly more than even you realised.

Here, now, faced with the prospect of losing it makes you think that you can’t live without it. That you _need_ it or you will feel aimless and lost forever. It became an anchor slowly, with time, but now you value it above most things.

That realisation leaves you trembling before you conjure up some semblance of composure back.

“Please,” you plead again, soft and frayed. “Not this. I can give you something else. Something _more_.”

He doesn’t hide his palpable confusion, and that’s when you move closer, your fingers snaking up his neck as you lean forward and kiss him.

His moment of hesitation lasts no more than a split second before he grabs you around the waist, hauling you closer and you slip your arms around him, kissing him as deeply as you can. Your mouth hurts from how hard you kiss him, fervent and demanding, and despite his initial falter, he replies with equal drive and need. Your tongue slips inside his mouth, wet and hot, and you don’t compromise and neither does he. One hand grips the back of his neck where your nails sink into the firm, strong skin there, scratching and claiming. Your other drags across the scruff of his jaw, forcing him closer. Not that you need to, he holds you so close, every curve of your body presses into him.

He fuses you two together, the accessories of his robes wedging painfully into your skin but it only fuels you more. His large, burning hand settles against the back of your neck, holding you to him. Biting back a snarl, you try to wiggle your way free but his fingers dig in. Firm, unyielding, steadying; forcing a small gasp from you despite your best effort to hold it back.

You let everything flow outwards, biting down on his bottom lip greedily, and he groans loudly at the back of his throat—a deep, appreciative sound—that almost makes you purr in delight. All that control, all those guards, and you tore through them like tissue paper.

The taste of him mingles on your tongue, his nose nudging against your cheek when he deepens the kiss again, exploring and searching but with such desperation, it’s like he’s trying to drown himself in the kiss. In _you_.

Your lips tingle and feel partially numb by the time you finally part, breathing hard. Heat creeps up your neck and simmers in your gut while you continue holding onto him. The chain around your neck lays forgotten, both of the Elder’s arms locked firmly around you instead.

Perhaps this is a kiss you should have shared years ago. That night by the fire you came dangerously close to taking this path. Claiming a lot more than just a kiss from him when he outright admitted that he would have made you his. A kiss that could have started something beautiful. It’s tainted now by the uncertainty of your shared future but you don’t point that out, only waiting for his reaction.

“_Ya amar_,” he breathes near reverent, his voice throaty, and gaze wild. He tries to leash his desire but you can still taste it, and with how thoroughly you kissed him, you have no doubt that he can say the same for you. “Why?”

“This is what you want,” you tell him, hushed words that brush against his lips as intimately as your lips have moments prior. “It’s what you always wanted.” 

He grips one side of your face, reminding you too much of someone you can’t afford to think of right now, and he shakes his head once.

“No,” he murmurs but the way he holds onto you betrays him as do his eyes that keep flickering back towards your lips. “What I always wanted was an equal,” he pauses for a beat, squinting at you like he’s taking you in with new eyes, like you’re a marvel to behold. “And you have become exactly that, haven’t you, my viper?”

Once you would have denied it, shielded away from saying anything on the matter. Once you simply won’t have believed it. But now there is nothing holding you back anymore.

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

His eyes flutter shut at your confirmation, and you hate the subtle glimmer of relief, even wonderment, you see creasing his expression. Like he’s waited his whole life for someone to say that.

“Three months,” he utters quietly like he doesn't want to disturb the moment. “Then you will return to me.”

“I always do.”

His grip on you constricts before loosening, lingering and reluctant to let go but he does eventually, his digits sliding away from the curve of your waist and neck.

You don’t bother asking how many rules you broke with this kiss.

You both got what you wanted.

“Your tent awaits you,” he prompts quietly, still drilling holes into you. “Rest before your journey, viper. We will see each other soon.”

You couldn’t run even if you wanted to or tried—neither of which you do. Too late for that now.

You dip your head in a small bow, but his fingers tap under your chin the moment you do, guiding your face upwards.

“Everyone but you.”

Then he pulls away, his thumb fluttering briefly over your bottom lip, and sits himself down on his throne, folding his arms and legs alike.

The perfect picture of a powerful, controlled ruler. Enigmatic and captivating.

Cruel as he is kind.

The Terrible Sultan, you can’t quite help your fleeting thought. Which makes you wonder if that, then, makes you his Golden Empress.

You don’t linger on that thought though, that connection that lives between you. Pivoting on your heels, you head towards the exit of the tent, feeling his eyes lingering on you the entire way.

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

Your expression slackens the moment your back is to him, coldness spreading through you as you step into the blazing desert sun.

_E4 E5_.

* * *

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

So much so that all you can do is sit slumped beside your old cot. You hadn’t quite made to it, instead half-collapsing beside it. Your folded knees partially obscure your sight as you stare blankly ahead but you can’t bring yourself to move.

Instead, you work on glueing together that controlled calm the very man you just talked with taught you.

Your mind doesn’t allow you rest though. Every wall of control and discipline you’ve ever learned from every influential person in your life dissolves in face of the blistering furnace that is your raging heart.

A collection of voices scream at you inside your head, and it takes a while to be able to comprehend what one singular voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston is demanding.

_What have you done?_

And all you can think in response to that is a tiny and uncertain, _What I had to_.

Lacing your fingers, you push them between your thighs, sucking in deep, near painful breaths.

You don’t have time for this. No time for self-pity. There’s…

There’s too much to do.

Yet all you want to do is sit here for the rest of your days and never move.

You lick your lips, wetting them, and feel another torrent of emotions batter against your self-control.

The taste of him is still in your mouth.

You haven’t kissed anyone on the lips in five years. Not since that night on your birthday when you kissed John. The last time you ever laid your mouth on someone else in general…

A comforting memory slips through the chaos; wispy and balmy, like an embrace. A memory of heat enveloping you, familiar cologne, and dark curly hair. Santino’s small, drunken smile when you pressed a kiss against his forehead, your fingers cupping his face.

The way he had held you to him around the waist, making you feel unfairly safe, cared for.

You never did tell Santino about his whispered words at Naples. What he confessed to you between the shadowed walls of his bedroom. Back then, a large part of you still refused to believe it—believe him. Had chalked it up to nothing more than a drunken moment of sentimentality. But that’s no longer the case. You know better than that now.

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye.

Clinging to that memory—and the understanding that you don’t have time to waste—you rise to your feet. For what feels like a thousandth time, teeth gritted and jaw set, you still stand despite the knock.

Your tent hasn’t changed much. Some things are in a different place to where you left them but the knowledge that it’s been waiting for you all this time is like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Soon, if things come to pass, it will be your home permanently.

You start with changing and washing up, followed by applying the salve you found in a small, ceramic pot onto your skin.

_For the burns_, the note left on your pillow beside the pot read. You didn’t need to ask questions about its origins. You know that penmanship as well as your own after spending endless months studying his research.

The Elder has once again thought of everything.

The salve is like a soothing, cool caress across your burned, dry skin and the relief is, once again, immediate. A part of you wonders if there will ever come a day when his genius doesn’t surprise and intrigue you.

Food is harder. Your stomach still churns, and despite your best attempts to quell the sensation of queasiness, it doesn’t pass.

You force some broth down despite that, chewing everything in front of you on automatic. Made with a loving hand and great care guarantees that the food is delicious yet you taste none of it.

It’s quiet.

The roar inside your mind has quietened.

Now everything feels cold and far away despite the heat dampening the back of your neck already. The shock has worn off, leaving only throbbing absence behind.

A commotion sounds outside your tent and your head snaps to the sound. A second later the flap parts and a familiar, dark spectre of a man walks inside, his eyes already locked onto you.

“John.”

You jump to your feet at the sight of him, moving towards him in hurried steps. Saad slinks inside behind John and you halt at the sight of his looming frame, your eyes narrowing. So that’s where he’s been. No doubt watching over the deadliest assassin alive to make sure he doesn’t cause problems.

John looks relieved to see you, his expression easing as he takes in your new attire. Previously severe contours of his features relax and his chin dips.

“V.”

He always manages to pack so much into so little. It’s like the acknowledgement alone asks a hundred questions.

_Are you okay? _

_Are you hurt?_

_What happened?_

Though you want to ask him those same questions yourself. He looks terrible. His treatment, clearly, while not awful has not been as hospitable as your own.

“Saad,” you address the man, nodding your head towards him. Much like the Elder, he hasn’t changed much. A new scar clips the left side of his chin but the rest of him remains the same. From his critical stare, crooked nose, and dark skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

He doesn’t smile and his expression doesn’t lighten at your words. You didn’t expect it to, either.

“Viper,” he says so bluntly you blink and even John inclines his body towards the man, peering at him from the corner of his eye. “Finally back where you belong.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I’m going back to New York,” you inform him, jutting your chin. “So I’m afraid this is a brief visit only.”

Those pitch-black eyes study you for several moments and you can’t quite tell what’s going on behind those empty depths.

“You have ten minutes,” he states briskly, his voice still flat and accent gruff. “Then I am to escort Mr Wick to his transport. Your presence has been requested by the Elder before your departure.”

You straighten at that. John is much the same, his shoulders curving backwards. Those words are also when you notice that John is in a fresh, black suit.

“Is there a problem?” you pose coolly, but your old sparring partner only watches you both with palpable distrust.

He glares at you for a beat, still deadly silent, before turning away from you both. “Ten minutes,” he grunts, and then he’s gone, the flap swishing in his wake while you listen to his retreating footsteps.

“V, what happened?” John asks the moment Saad’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “He told me he saw you already.”

_He_. The Elder.

Dropping your head in a nod, you turn away from the man behind you, glancing briefly at your shaking fingers. You squeeze them painfully, pressing them against your chest instead, and focus.

_I can do this_.

“We came to an agreement,” you say swiftly, keeping your tone light, and glance at him over your shoulder. Your hand lowers from your chest at the look on his face. John looks confused. Unconvinced. “My Excommunicado will be lifted once I return to New York. You?”

You knew from the moment the deal was made that telling John would not be wise. You know the man inside this tent. His actions with Santino have proven to you that despite what you might say or do, it won’t change his mind. When it comes to push or shove, John will always shove. And he will shove with enough force to crush the opposition completely.

His reaction to learning that you have to go back in three months would only land him in deeper trouble. Usually, you would expect him to maintain his ironlike composure. Very little could ever move John in the first place, especially towards anything rash. But that desperate gleam in his eyes when he told you that he will make up for his mistakes keeps constantly jumping to mind.

You don’t trust John not to do something drastic right now.

He doesn’t respond to your inquiry at first. Which gives you plenty of time to notice the sheen of pain exuding from him. You slant your body back towards him when you do, and take several steps closer.

“What’s wrong?”

Still, he says nothing.

You’re about to demand answers but he simply lifts his hand in the air between you.

And you suck in a deep breath at the sight of his missing ring finger.

The void is glaring and the finger that was once home for a golden wedding band is gone. As is the ring.

“He wanted to see my conviction to the Table and told me to cut my finger in a show of fealty,” he explains lowly, his voice and expression worn. “I will be bound to it and remember through death after I complete my task. That was his will and my price to pay for survival.”

It’s so easy, you think in a dazed rush, to forget exactly what the Elder is capable of. He got the deadliest assassin in the world to mutilate himself as a punishment. You would wager he didn’t even threaten—he didn’t need to.

It makes you painfully aware of what could have happened to you if you didn’t have that history with him. If he didn’t look at you with all that hidden emotion. If you were just a girl who broke his rules. What would have become of you then? Would you have lost a finger as well? Your whole hand?

Would you have been just another casualty to be stomped out? Removed like a tumour because you didn’t abide.

Suddenly you feel sick all over again.

Suddenly all you want—

Your arms wrap around him and you squeeze the powerful frame of John’s body to you. He seems to deflate, unwind and soften, his arms wrapping tightly around you in return.

“I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still angry at him, still bitter about all he’s done, but you care about him despite that, and know how deeply this would have hurt. Physical injury aside, it’s the loss of his ring that would have stung the deepest.

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply.

It’s not something that can fade so easily despite death.

You felt panicked at the mere prospect of the Elder taking the silver chain around your neck. How did John feel having to lose his finger and his final sign of dedication to the woman he loves?

But, it seems, that you have both gotten what you had coming.

He, too, will be bound to the Table now. In a different way than you but bound all the same. This desperate, bloody fight to be free and you are both back exactly where you started.

John’s face presses into you, savouring the contact, and you release him after another minute. It isn’t just him that needed this.

“I have to tell you something,” he says the moment you pull back.

The morose curve of his mouth chills you at once. Comfort, however fleeting, has now left the air between you.

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

John stares at you for a while. An internal war rages behind his dark eyes and your confusion mounts at his hesitancy. Something is stuck behind his teeth and your stomach sinks the longer the battle goes on inside him.

“It’s about Cassian,” he eventually settles on.

Your brows draw together, caught off guard. Analysing his features closely, you wait to see if he will expand on that but as always John limits himself. He only peers at you but the regret you find lingering in the air around him unsettles you further.

“What about him?”

He still looks torn and reluctant when his lips part, “After we parted. He found me,” he says and your shoulders lift with your forceful inhale. Understanding blooms steadily with every word. “He wanted revenge. For Gianna.”

The air inside the tent is blistering but you feel it cool by several degrees at those words.

You had sworn an oath to Gianna that you will make sure her family name survives beyond her. Now you wear the very ring she and Santino have been struggling to earn their entire lives.

Even worse were Cassian’s parting words to you that still haunt you.

_But if we ever meet again. I will kill you myself. _

Your mentor and friend. A brother you would have loved to have had.

You could drill John about what happened while you were dealing with Lucien. You could accuse him of more wrongdoings and damage. Demand to know why he didn’t tell you sooner. Scorn him. Hate him.

But instead, you turn away, and let only one question slip free, the only one that matters, “Is he still alive?”

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

His voice is thick with muted remorse and you nod your head in acceptance of that honesty. You don’t say anything in return, still staring at your cot. Focus on the pattern of your old blanket. 

You feel it bubbling in the air between you and speak up before he can.

“Don’t apologise,” you order but it’s empty of fury. You just sound weary. So very weary. “I understand. I just…”

Your eyes slip shut. He was only trying to keep himself alive. It’s just survival. But it still hurts. In that moment, the urge to give up is near overpowering. It digs deep between your shoulder blades and straight into your heart but you shake it off.

_You’re not getting out of this. There’s no hope for you now. You know how this ends. _

You almost recoil at Kishi’s voice filtering from the deepest recesses of your mind.

No. There’s still hope. That’s exactly why you can’t give up. Because there _is_ still hope.

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

John’s soft inquiry makes you flinch, snapping you to the present. Your eyes return to him and you examine him for a moment, digesting his words.

“Yes,” you mumble in agreement, your sadness no doubt palpable. “Yes, I do.”

John lowers his head, a few strands of his raven hair tickling his cheek when he does. “Do you ever wonder…”

He stares at the empty space where his finger should be, flexing the remaining ones experimentally. You wait for him to continue but can tell from one look that he’s lost in his head, thinking hard about something.

“Do I wonder what?”

John’s lips part, then press shut again. His breaths are haggard, slow.

“What might have happened had I never pushed you back? Never left.”

You’re not sure what to do with his curiosity. You’re not even sure how you feel about it. 

“I used to. Often,” you admit after several minutes of thought. Because what do you have left to hide? Now, perhaps, you can be as open as you wish to be, say everything because it’s not like— “Then I realised there was no point to it because you weren’t coming back,” you tell him and chuckle weakly, adding an ironic, “We’re each masters of our own fate.”

Shuffling your feet, you venture closer towards him, and lift your face to his, taking his hand into your own. His knuckles, much like your own, are bruised and swollen. His are worse than yours, however, and with that in mind, you lead him towards your cot. You reach into the still open ointment pot and gather some, rubbing your fingers briefly to warm the salve.

Slowly, you drag your fingertips gently over his knuckles. It won’t be as effective as it is for burns but chamomile, echinacea and ginseng inside the salve should still help with healing and soothing the pain.

“You always had the right to choose, John,” you say quietly, frankly, as you work to apply the salve on his other hand as well. He’s so still you’re not sure if he’s breathing. “The right to happiness. I understand that now. It’s always been your right,” you continue, a touch sadder, and your eyes skip upwards to rest on his face. His stare is gentle, his mouth parted while he peers at you. “I’m just sorry that you had to lose it. But to answer your question. No. Not anymore. It’s been a long time. We’re different people now.”

You finish applying the salve and release your grip but his fingers tighten around yours before you can.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says, his words hushed.

Your search his face again. Wonder what the future will hold for you both. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

A rustle sounds behind you and you turn just as Saad steps back into the tent, his features still rigid with displeasure.

“Come with me, Mr Wick,” he instructs sternly and inclines his head in your direction. “The Elder awaits you.”

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in.

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly.

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal.

_Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? _

_It is my duty. _

_So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely. _

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, _Not anymore_.

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him.

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years.

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t.

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest. 

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation.

You imagine that will change one day soon.

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed.

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness.

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you.

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his.

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well.

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail.

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now.

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done.

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness.

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you _everything_.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less _one day_.

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh.

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company.

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above.

* * *

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I _wanted_ you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not _his_ city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He _deserves_ to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze. 

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. _Home_.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you _really_ don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“_Boss_,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase. 

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, _dog_,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “_Get lost_.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He _woke up_?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the _head_ and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“_Circling_,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “_Fuck_.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been _waiting_ for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here _right now_.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I _can’t_,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

* * *

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however. 

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all. 

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly. 

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of _you_. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting _the_ John Wick and _the_ Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent _keep an eye on him_.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—_fixation_—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are _alike_? An obsessive _there can only be one_ mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

_What_?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation. 

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to _war_ with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

_What if I just killed Tarasov now?_

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused,_ You get killed._

_Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on._

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

_Oh_.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead. 

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager. 

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “_Deconsecrated_.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since _you_ are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And _you_ are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my _home_,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “_Can it_?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “_Don’t_.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.” 

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

_They should be terrified of you_, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

_NF3 NC6._

* * *

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity. 

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first. 

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“_Ow_. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, _fine_. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, _that_ will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say _satisfied?_ and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. _Hunt_.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as _goddamn gas helmets _on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin. 

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well. 

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take. 

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to _kill_ you, do they? 

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

_Let me give you something to be afraid of. _

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t _matter_—

“V.”

“_What do you want_?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“_This_,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your _complete_ trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

* * *

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire. 

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

_Mr Sandman_ drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you _are_,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out. 

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you _knew_ but you _don’t_. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, _viper_.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of _one, two, three_ before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

_I’ll be waiting for you_.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m _fine_.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination. 

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now. 

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of _Mr Sandman_ floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t. 

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting _slow_.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a _dance_.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he _missed_ you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. _Viper_. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?” 

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly _disappointing_.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades. 

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, _us_—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him. 

“You never even _questioned_ it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his _every_ expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. _Think_.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It _can’t_.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it _does_.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you _harder, harder, harder—_

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it _peculiar_ that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always _has_.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

_Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—_

“Prague. Again. Poison that made _you_ struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a _reason_. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. _Cognitionis_ had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died. 

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to _seem_ that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking _knew_, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been _your_ choice.

No forced loyalty.

_You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me._

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable. 

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

_The Elder sends his regards_.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his _favourite_,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones _broke._ We could bleed ourselves dry, and it _still_ wasn’t enough!”

_Shódigan. _

That’s why he asked if you knew about it. 

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He _adored_ you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He _is_ like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: _qui se resemble, s'assemble_. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is _like_ to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive _fool_.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

_One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything_.

Everything. This is what he had meant by _everything_.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet. 

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have _won_ and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s _too much_, it’s… 

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to _desire_ them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really _did_ hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this _more_. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde _tsks_ under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you _can’t_. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly _does_. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

_Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy. _

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back. 

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

_Everything_ is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what _I_ lacked that _you_ had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “_Quoi_?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m _faster_.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing. 

_BC4 BC5_.

* * *

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

_Sometimes you have to kill what you love._

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

_You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory_, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, _soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue. _

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (_have you? liar, liar, liar_, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

_Red, red, red_…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

_BANG_

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

_BANG_

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“_(Name)!_” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He _sounds_ scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation. 

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed. 

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

_Your life is not your own, it never was._

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you. 

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

_Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy._

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him _so proud_.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, _yourself_.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

_B4_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. 
> 
> now you know. 
> 
> not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:
> 
> \- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.


	19. free to be you and me;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s time for the game to begin in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missed me? Because I sure missed you. Be sure to get some snacks though, this is another (25k) chonker. And, as always, thank you so much for all your reviews and support. It makes me :')

“Are you listening to me?”

Your eyes don’t open right away. For a while, the early spring sun warms you, heating your cool skin, cocooning you in heat that’s so pleasant you don’t want it to end. There is a pinprick of warmth across your nose and cheeks, a slight drying of your lips, and for some reason, a lump sits tightly in your throat as you soak up the heated rays. 

New York may lack the sweltering hotness of the Sahara desert but it warms you from somewhere deeper. In a way only home ever could. 

Deciding not to prolong this more than necessary, you let your eyes crack open, slanting your head away from the sky, and back towards the man sitting in front of you. 

The breakfast table sits between you, some of the food eaten and cups half-empty—tea with a splash of milk and one sugar, Winston’s constant and favourite for years now—and you shift in your seat, blinking the dazzling brightness still clinging to your eyelashes. 

His features blur briefly, a smear of colours and dark spots, but when your vision settles, you find the manager watching you with that familiar collected poise. It still soothes almost as much as it unsettles. Even years later, the air of quiet authority hasn't dampened, hasn’t lessened despite the bond you have built outside of your manager and assassin roles. 

“When don’t I?”

An eyebrow quirks in response to that; cool and near disbelieving. “Too often,” he answers bluntly and, under different circumstances, you might have cracked a smile or even teased him back. 

The older man places the cup back in its saucer, and you feel wind dance across the rooftop terrace of the Continental. It finally feels warm enough to have breakfast outside, and you enjoy the tingle of heat against the top of your head from the sun overhead. Savour a kiss of the breeze against the skin of your bare neck. 

You can’t help but cherish these things now, pull them close and imprint them in your memory. 

“You look exhausted,” Winston notes pointedly a moment later. 

You shrug, shifting again, but there is something listless about it you know. A disquiet hangs around you that’s hard to shake, hard to hide even though you try your hardest. It’s easier with the manager around because at least he _knows_. With him, you can relax and not fear slips the way you do with others now. 

“It’s been a long month.”

And it has. Somehow it has managed to pass in a blink and yet still feel like a year of struggling and planning, trying to…

A breath—deep from the furthest reaches of your lungs—escapes, joining the wind and your eyes slip shut again. 

“When was the last time you slept?” 

A more critical, hard tone of his voice slices through the air this time, and your head lifts, eyes fluttering open. 

“It’s fine,” you assert. “I’m _fine_. Continue. What do you think is the next move?”

You ignore the voice deep down that hisses _liar, liar, liar_. 

Winston laces his fingers over the table, examining you closely as he does so, and you rotate your left shoulder, still feeling the cramp there from your fight with Lucien. You might have healed—only a small bandage on your split eyebrow now remains, your scarred ear now fully mended—but that’s not the real damage it did. 

The manager continues watching you, as he often does now that he knows the truth, but you never ask for his thoughts. 

You can still recall with perfect clarity the morose intensity with which he listened to you telling him all Lucien revealed. How everything you’ve ever known has been a lie. No—perhaps not quite a lie but an illusion at least. All these years you’ve been even more bound than you ever realised. A naive fool dancing to someone else’s tune. And when you were done, your throat raw, your eyes dry from all the tears you had already shed privately—unable to conjure more no matter how badly the urge burned away at you—Winston only gave you a sigh of grim understanding. 

_You are still you_, is the only thing he said back then. 

Neither of you has spoken much on the topic since. You’re not sure if it’s because he, himself, doesn’t want to or if it’s because you’ve made it clear that you have little desire to broach the topic again. 

_You are still you_. 

But you don’t _feel_ like you. You feel like an imposter wearing the skin of someone else. 

The Vipress. 

Who even is that? 

A figment someone willed and nurtured into being. 

Winston waits till the attendants clear the breakfast table, silent and thoughtful, and you ignore his probing stare. It’s hard to…

It’s just _hard_. 

More frightening than the rage or hurt is the utter lack of anything you feel. It’s so quiet and still inside you now. At first, you assumed it to be shock but now you’re not so sure anymore. It’s not like Chicago, either. This is something else and it chills you because whatever _it _is, it seems to be bottomless. Now, the steadily crystallising clarity is like a broken shard of glass puncturing your mind. 

It’s the sharpest, most destructive thing you’ve ever felt rattling inside yourself. 

“If the reports are correct then it will not be long now,” Winston finally voices calmly, glancing towards the retreating staff. 

These are his people but he still doesn’t trust them. Your discussion is too delicate to risk outsider ears. You know the only exception to this rule is Charon. 

“We talked about this,” you snip back, twisting the ring still on your hand, the ruby glinting in the sunlight. A crown of blood and gold but a symbol of power all the same—one you’ve embraced out of necessity as much as choice. “It’s out of the question.”

Winston sighs. It’s as exasperated as every other time this topic has crept up in the last month. “The board is still being watched but the Bishop will make his move soon regardless. We both know he will,” he adds, a touch lower, his stare grave. 

“I know we’re being watched,” you shoot back, ignoring the flutter in your stomach in response to his words. “You already gave me a lecture about it, remember?”

“Yes because your behaviour was foolish,” he states plainly, a hint of displeasure still evident in his tone. “What does it tell us though? The Rook’s presence still being on the board?”

The way you handled the Adjudicator, the fallout on the rooftop terrace exactly a month ago, went down about as well with Winston as you had expected it to. Your callous and mocking words and blatant disrespect with the situation has made you a less than respected member of the organisation in the Adjudicator’s eyes—something Winston wanted to avoid at all costs. When the plan came together it was always only ever about playing the fools, being obedient and loyal tools for the Table. You crumbled that plan too much with your actions and words. He may have understood the reason for your “ungracious” behaviour after your explanation but it soured the situation too much by that point. 

“It means the Table suspects,” you answer blandly, barely tasting your words, staring at a random spot on the floor like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever observed. “It means we’re being watched because they know something isn’t right. Besides the obvious. But they can’t prove anything yet, so the Rook being present is to put pressure on us. To see if we let anything slip by.”

“Precisely,” the manager agrees with an incisive nod. “Which is exactly why you must let this play out.”

Your head tilts, and there is something cold in the gesture, in the creak of your bones. That chasm inside you hums. “I said no,” you say coldly, leaving no room for arguments. “Bishop moves and I will be there. I will not let him hurt you, it’s out of the question. You said a month ago that you made a choice. Well, you’re not the only one to make one.”

Winston peers at you for a while, silent. You stare back, hoping he finally realises that you will not budge on this. Not now, or ever for that matter.

“You know he will come for me,” he begins quietly, so quietly it’s nearly lost in the breeze. “Are you truly prepared to stand against him? He will come with vengeance in his heart, and he will not stop. Not until it’s done,” he states knowingly, his bright eyes flickering over your expression before he adds a softer, near apologetic, “Maybe not even for you.”

Your teeth clench, your digits stilling in your lap and your eyes lowering to them. To every faded bruise and scratch still visible across your skin. 

_You were his favourite. No one after you was good enough!_

A pained inhale, and your hands clench at the sudden recollection, straining the muscles in your palms to a point of pain while you work to steady your breathing. 

It takes another several moments to lock away the memory, suffocate it in its tracks and refocus on the present. 

You know John will come. 

And you know he will not stop because he never does. 

Whatever injuries he sustained during his fall are likely fully healed or close to it. The fact that it’s taken him this long only indicates how bad it must have been. 

It’s a damn miracle he survived at all. But had he stayed on that rooftop he would have been dead for certain. 

The lesser of two evils, giving him at least some chance to survive through that confrontation, even if it was a cruel decision. 

A decision that required an absolute show of trust in the manager in front of you. 

Lifting your head, you meet Winston’s stare with a minute frown and offer him only a passive, “He can try but he will have to go through me first.” 

No arguments or falters to be found in your voice this time, either. 

“That’s exactly the problem,” he points out with another silent sigh, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip of his cooling tea. “Time is against us, we can’t afford these setbacks,” he adds, pointed but dour. 

Only two months left. 

You’re starting to feel it as well. You knew it was only a matter of time before you did but it still eats away at you, makes the inevitable that much more tangible unless you find a solution soon. It makes this harder because so far there has been nothing. There’s still time but…

You don’t respond, swallowing heavily, your eyes drawn to the open sky once again. 

“Have you told him yet?” Winston questions after another stretch of silence between you, mercifully dropping the previous topic. 

“No.”

“You should, and soon.”

This time you’re the one to sigh and squint at his figure in the sun. “I know,” you whisper with a heavy breath. But no matter how deeply you inhale, it never seems to be enough anymore. It’s not a new feeling to you. Directly after Tokyo, a phantom sensation of suffocation plagued you constantly for months. No matter how much oxygen you gulped down none of it ever seemed to sate you. “I wanted to wait till he recovered fully.”

The manager lets a ruminative sound sit at the back of his throat, considering you over his cup. “You mean you’re worried about his reaction,” he concludes mildly and takes another sip of his tea. “Signor D’Antonio is unlikely to take this news well.”

Contempt scratches up your nerves, your limbs, wrapping around your throat like a noose and igniting that furnace briefly. 

“Which news?” you bite out, a whip of a question. “The fact that I’m never seeing any of you again in two months, or the fact that nearly seven years of my life have been a manipulation?”

Winston’s expression eases into something that reminds you of forbearing defeat. The understanding you see there stings. You’re used to strictness and discipline from him, often hard to swallow words of advice that don’t sugarcoat anything. 

That minute glint of understanding, of softness, wounds. You both appreciate it while also wishing that he would stop and act like he always does—hard and ruthless and indifferent. 

“Both, I imagine.”

His voice is smooth, and the lack of anger, even displeasure, drowns out that fire in a blink.

He doesn't deserve your ire. Not after everything. 

“I—sorry. I’m just...”

You don’t know what to say. 

A moment of peaceful quiet lingers between you before, “The circumstances of one’s birth undoubtedly set them on a certain path in life but that does not mean one has to stay on it,” he phrases calmly, and you find that despite his words, despite the near gentle way he says them, you can’t quite look at him. “Same can be said about your situation. You may have been put on a certain path, encouraged to walk it, but it does not change the fact that _you_ are the one who walked it. It does not take away from what you have achieved. _You_, not anyone else.” 

It becomes increasingly difficult to breathe over the persistent lump in your throat. 

He’s right, and you know that—know it in that abstract way you sometimes know things even if they don’t sit right in your chest. You _know_ but _believing_ it is a whole other matter. 

Because what are you, really? 

A fighter, a poisoner, a killer—but you may not have been those things. You might have never become what you are today. Might have never feared the water or the dark. Might have gone down a medical field and used your talents to help people, not kill them. 

You might have made a difference, done some good in the world, no matter how elusive of a concept that now seems. 

It’s so hard not to feel cheated out of a woman you could have been. Good or otherwise.

“I want only one thing now, and that’s all that matters.”

His head slants at an angle with your words; a knowing, clinical motion that’s every bit a Chessmaster mentally mapping and moving the pieces. 

“Destruction.”

Your attention settles back on him, stays on him. “_Justice_.”

He hums, his blue eyes hard but there’s no judgment in them, just interest, a wish to understand. 

“By whatever means.”

A soft hiss of a breath escapes you, and you sit up, restless in your own skin but that’s a constant you deal with now as well. “You said that you’re with me,” you remind him, trying—and likely failing—to keep out the vulnerability in your own voice. 

It’s hard not to let him see the weakness in you, the misbalance, despite knowing you don’t have to hide with him. That he’s one of the few you have nothing to prove to. He’s seen you before Chicago, at your absolute worst, but another part of you can’t help and consider how much worse this will undoubtedly get before it’s over. You want to stay strong. You have to be stronger now than ever before but you know how this goes—

For a foolish second, you part your lips, mulling over the idea of telling him, revealing that final puzzle piece to him but he speaks before you can. 

“Of course I am, dear,” he hums with an unconcerned shrug that’s all nonchalance, gesturing vaguely towards the street below. “Let it burn if it must.” 

You know it’s not that simple, that he still disapproves of at least the majority of your plan in its current form but it’s only one avenue you have considered. 

It’s dependent on telling Santino the truth and taking a gamble on a massive scale. Thinking of the Italian right now makes your heart squeeze, creating an acute ache deep in your bones. You’ve tried to shield him from everything for the last month: Winston, the High Table, Camorra itself, the truth. The latter has been the hardest to keep from him. Yet it has also made you hoard every interaction with him more. Because if all else fails, at least you know he will be healed and ready to retake Camorra fully after it’s over. With the Four at his command, with Ares and Roberto beside him, at least he will be safe and in power. 

“But I am here to also make sure _you_ don’t burn alongside them,” Winston continues, interrupting your train of thought. “You need something to anchor you, (Name), or vengeance will consume you.”

_You sound just like him_, you want to spit back but can’t. It's like those spiteful words get stuck inside your windpipe and you find yourself simply sitting there, choking on them, mute and scattered. Talking, even thinking, about the Elder has somehow become the most arduous task imaginable. It would be so much easier if you could default on rage the way you did with Kishi and Tarasov. Let that anger cradle you and nurture you, kiss you goodnight and fill your belly full every morning when you woke up.

And there is anger there but…

Once, he _mattered_. Once, you thought…

Blinking, you shake your head, ripping your trail of thought apart. It’s an empty avenue to go down now anyway. You’ve set you both on a different path. 

The manager regards you for a moment, searching your expression, and for what feels like the hundredth time you can’t help but wonder what he sees. 

Now more than ever. 

_You’re nothing_, Kishi murmurs lovingly in your ear, _you’re more dead than I am_. 

“I’ve been anchored all my life,” you whisper, strained, blinking through your daze, and your voice sharpens when his stare flickers. “It disagrees with me.”

The older man shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow arches at your words and you see the disapproval lining his expression. 

“You’ve been anchored by debts and chains,” he shoots back and raises his hand, his index finger lifting in the air. “Much has changed since you first set foot in this hotel.”

“Such as?” you can’t help but wonder.

Winston peers at you for a while, an instance that tells you he expects you to know the answer to that already. “You are no longer alone, for one,” he voices with such self-assurance in his voice you can’t help but feel that he’s right. It’s staggeringly comforting despite how difficult it is to truly believe it after everything. “But do send Santino my best,” he adds deliberately. 

Nothing but a manager sending his well wishes. 

But you read the true meaning of his words well enough. 

He wants you to tell Santino the truth today. Take the ultimate gamble despite the still too large unknown when it comes to John and his current position. But if your tentative hope when it comes to the assassin doesn’t work out, Santino’s support will be more imperative than ever. 

That’s the next play, the grand move in this deadly game you two are now playing. 

The final game. 

_It’s time_, his solemn expression says, and you have to force down a bile twice. 

It’s time for the game to begin in earnest.

* * *

**ONE MONTH AGO.**

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, and you stink.”

That manages to dislodge a snort out of Hector who takes a deep drag of his cigarette, the tip flaring orange before he throws it away with a flick of his wrist. 

He looks like shit himself. 

White shirt torn, smeared with dark smudges and dried blood that’s crusted into a muted maroon colour by now. His jacket is missing, and the muscles in his forearms coil with each stir of his body, showcasing the tattoos marking his arms like a coursing river of ink. Speckles of blood linger against his jaw and temple, his pale eyes still stormy. Coming down from the high of a fight, you know as much because you feel the same. When adrenaline recedes like a tidal wave and only weary tendrils of it remain in your aching muscles. 

The area around the penthouse is a mess. Shattered glass, blood, marks of explosions, and enough dead bodies that you lose count with one sweep of your eyes. 

The cleaning crew led by Charlie is buzzing around the area like flies—vultures—and you allow your eyes to sweep over the perimeter, realising that it’s been warded off to keep any curious onlookers at bay. Camorra will still have to pay a pretty penny to keep this under wraps. Another violent gang clash, the news will no doubt report. Hiding this amount of carnage will still take a lot of effort even for them.

It takes too long to remind yourself that this is your mess as well. 

Your responsibility. 

Funny. You barely feel like you can stand, much less handle your position right now. 

This attack—the knowledge that Santino’s life and that of the Elites is in danger—is the only thing that managed to force your body into action. 

You don’t dare to ponder how you might have stayed on the floor of your trashed room for the rest of your days if it weren’t for them. 

You’re not entirely certain how you’re still standing even now, but you are, and that’s a victory. 

The embrace of cool evening air brushes against your bruised skin and Hector lets his eyes sweep over your frame critically, an eyebrow lifting scornfully at the state of you. Despite looking like he’s been through hell, you can’t see any visible injuries on him, and the whisper of relief you feel at that assessment startles you just a bit.

The rest of the Four are nowhere in sight though. No Ares or Roberto, either. 

“Looks like you had fun,” he drawls sarcastically, crushing the cigarette he threw to the ground under his black leather boot. “Did you kill him?”

You approach him with carefully measured steps, trying hard to keep the sway from your gait. “It’s been handled,” is all you say because it’s all you have the energy to say. 

Hector’s stare is critical while he processes your words, no doubt noticing the near undulated way you move closer, and he jerks his head towards the penthouse. “Let’s go. You’re in high demand right now, sweetheart.”

“What happened here?”

Aside from the obvious. Aside from the fact that the Black Dragon took a massive blow on two fronts, and despite the High Table’s best being sent, you managed to hold them off on two sides. It’s not something anyone has been able to boast of in the past. 

For some reason, a faint ember of pride flares to life at that realisation. 

You both fall into step, side by side, and you don’t miss the pistol slotted between his hip and trousers, the handle easy to reach in case of an emergency. His hair is a mess too, usually styled strands hastily swept back, and you can read some leftover frustration from how messy it is. 

“You were right,” he begins, a reluctant acknowledgement. “Divide and conquer. Fuckers turned up just as we got here ourselves. She wanted Princeling. Was real fucking eager for it too. Nice job on taking her eye though. Had some fun taunting her with that one.”

You glance towards him. “Did you kill her?”

Hector’s expression darkens, a storm brewing anew, and his eyes flash like lightning in the airy foyer, his fingers slamming against the elevator button with enough force for the sound to echo. 

“No,” he snarls, displeasure lining every menacing inch of him. “Bitch nearly turned Julian into a walking human torch when she realised that she’s losing and got the hell away. He’s fine. Might have to finally shave that dead rat living on his upper lip though. Chicken shit is on her tail too, trying to track her but nothing so far. She left her men to die as a diversion so she could get away,” he adds the last part with a particular sort of disgust. 

For Hector, it’s unlikely that a leader could ever stoop any lower than that. Perhaps ironic considering how eagerly Giovanni fed his own men and women to the meat grinder that forged Camorra’s foundation if it was needed. Giovanni, however, was merciless and too smart for his own good. His sacrifices were always important—necessary—or at least he was very good at making people believe that they were. 

“So she’s out there,” you conclude darkly, following him into the elevator. 

“Not for long,” Hector shoots back, the cords of his throat tight with displeasure. 

This is a personal failure for him. Even if the order came from you, it’s still a failure he’s taking to heart and you look his way. 

“Forget it,” you say, trying to stop yourself from slumping against the cold metal. “We have more important things to focus on than a wild goose chase. She’s alone. She will come to us once she gets desperate. We need to regroup. We…”

Your mind scatters, and you try to tug it back together, ignoring the blare of Lucien’s voice screaming at you the truth of your life. It’s a funny sensation of wanting to scream from the top of your lungs and collapse and block your ears just to drown him out. 

_Not yet, you’re stronger than that, my viper._

You veer to one side at the whisper of that low voice in your mind, gasping a breath, and your shoulder hits the metal of the elevator with a resounding bang. Your knees tremble, nearly folding under you, but a tight grip suddenly locks around your bicep, tugging you upwards. 

“Fuck—”

Hector pulls you up by your arm, jolting you in your place, and examines your face before he does another sweep of your body, searching with a downwards curl of his mouth.

“The hell was that?” he demands, his grip unyielding. “You injured or something?”

You try to jerk yourself out of his grip but it only constricts with a savage dip of his brows; a displeased, near callous curve. 

“Let go of me.”

He scoffs, dropping his grip with a disgruntled flourish and a scowl. “Fine, don’t say I didn’t do my job, sweetheart.”

His stare focuses on the Camorra Head ring still on your hand, and you half expect it to find it covered in blood but it isn’t. You’ve forgotten all about it during your fight. Despite his annoyance, Hector lingers next to you, looming, and you suppress an outright pant of breath. Maybe it’s pride, maybe you just can’t stand the idea of his judgment right now. You wait for more mocking words but they don’t come. 

He’s silent and still at your side but you can feel him monitoring your every exhale. He doesn’t look in your direction but you can see the rigidity locking his wide shoulders. Much like his appearance might suggest, he stinks of sweat, traces of sulfur, and blood. 

You hate the part of you that finds it comforting, steadying. 

The elevator halts, the door opening silently, and the white hallway greets you like a soothing palm through your hair much like Continental often does. There is a brief crack in your expression—you feel it acutely—before you push yourself out of the metal cubicle, slow in your pace because you’re too afraid to fall over. 

It’s also an exercise in composure, trying to pull yourself together before you reach the door to the penthouse apartment. 

You need to make sure everyone is safe.

Everything else is secondary. 

The Devil of Camorra shadows your steps, surprisingly quiet for a man of his stature. Not that you expected anything less from him though.

Your heart thuds louder and louder with every small decrease of distance. You don’t get to reach for the door handle, it swings open by itself. 

Dario’s large frame fills the doorway and your shoulders sag a little in relief upon seeing him. His brows are furrowed, face dirty and long hair hastily pulled back in a low bun. The smile that you spot stretching his mouth when he notices you is genuine and full of that warmth you always feel fill you in his presence; a taciturn sense of reassurance. 

“V,” he addresses you with a nod, glancing briefly behind you. Something passes between the two men but you don’t try to decipher what it may be. “Good to have you back with us.”

He means those words and your throat closes up at hearing them. It hits just as strongly as Lucien’s kicks did, maybe more so. It’s both the depth of that care as much as the idea of anyone caring at all. It’s near painful but in a good way. 

“How is he?” you question, entering the apartment only to find it bustling with activity. 

Step sits behind his laptop like usual, guards are milling around, while others are getting their wounds treated by the medical team. You spot Julian amongst them immediately and move in his direction at once. Dario falls at your side, Hector on your right, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re instinctively used to orbiting whoever it is that commands them. If that protection is so integral to them they don’t even notice it anymore. 

Step jumps up from his seat when he spots you too, a wide grin splitting his cheeks. From all the Elites, he looks the least ruffled, and that’s undoubtedly because he likely stayed out of the fray. He’s more useful working behind the scenes than in a direct gunfight. That, you know, is why Giovanni wanted him in the first place. Someone different, someone that would blindside Camorra’s enemies. Someone no one would see coming until it’s too late.

The sitting area of the apartment has never felt more suffocatingly full. 

“Stable but needs a lot of rest,” Dario answers calmly, clearing his throat before he adds, “He’s been asking after you. Unfortunately, so has the council.”

A council that’s made up of all the families that represent Camorra. They must be going through a meltdown right now, hearing the news they have. Santino shot, and you as his second, effectively governing them. An outsider. 

You hope Giovanni is rolling in his grave right about now too. 

“What do they want?” you force your tongue to work, your question almost absentminded as a result.

People turn in your direction as you cut across the length of the room, a few dipping their heads in respectful nods. It startles you for a second it takes for you to recall why they do that. 

You all halt before Julian and you give him a critical once over, “How are you feeling?” you query in a greeting.

His left forearm is wrapped in gauze, one side of his face scratched and red from heat damage. He offers you a near sheepish grin and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Don’t worry, boss,” he mutters in a greeting, not moving away when you gently grip his arm, examining his injuries. “Just stings, I’ll be fine in no time.”

You lift an eyebrow but continue with your examination. His moustache certainly looks singed, and you can understand what Hector meant earlier. 

Taking the spell of quiet as his cue to continue, Dario does, “They want to meet you.”

Swallowing a scoff, you lift your head towards him, “You mean they want to kill me.”

Hector snorts. “They can try. Might finally give us an excuse to crack their necks.”

Dario shoots the leader of Elite's a reproachful look but lowers himself beside Julian while you squat in front of the sharpshooter. Step unceremoniously plops to the ground beside you, a laptop still in hand, chewing on something while his fingers click against the keys rapidly. Hector is the only one left standing but he lingers in your circle, tall as a blaring warning, almost daring anyone around to approach unless summoned. 

“Most of them are fine with you being in command,” Dario reveals after a breath, his brows knitting deeper. “They just don’t like the fact that you haven’t been sworn in. It’s their damn pride.”

“The old ways are the best,” Step parrots from beside you mockingly. “_Camorra is iron and blood. We bow to no one._”

You’re pretty certain you heard Giovanni say that at least once in the past. 

Carefully gripping Julian’s face, you turn his head, examining the severity of the burns against his neck and ear. Nothing too awful, and thankfully nothing that will scar. 

“Have my amico to thank for the save,” Julian explains quietly, reading your silent question, and elbows Dario beside him. He swallows shakily avoiding direct eye contact, and you probe the edges close to where the blistered skin begins. “Pushed me out of the way.”

“You’ll be fine,” you tell him reassuringly, releasing your grip on him. “I have something back at the—”

You pause, swallowing your words because it takes you a second to realise that you’re not sure if you still have something for him after all. You ripped through your room like a hurricane, trashing everything in sight. But…the vaults. 

“I have something for your burns,” you say again, ignoring the confusion you glimpse on both Julian’s and Dario’s faces at the falter. “I’ll bring it next time I come. Any news on the Female Lover? The Male has been handled.”

A change in topic is blatant but Step rolls with it anyway. 

“Nope,” he mumbles and you hear the stark indignation in his voice—no jokes or grins on his face this time, just an intent sort of focus. Like a laser. “It’s kind of annoying how she keeps doing that. Raises a question of how she even _can_.”

You think you know how. 

Or at least have a good idea. The Lovers are puppets too. Everything is part of a machine that obeys only one man, however unknowingly. 

You still feel sick. Maybe you always will. 

“What now?” you choke out, ignoring the way the Four exchange brief glances. 

“Ideally,” Dario begins but there is notable reluctance in his voice. “You address the council. Order them to comply. Your Excommunicado was lifted, they have no choice but to obey now. Santino waking up only solidifies your position as temporary but binding.”

You don’t want to talk to anyone right now. It’s taking every scrap of strength you have just to sit like this with them, to talk and to pay attention. But this is the price for command—you can’t pick and choose when you’re in and when you’re not. 

You dip your head in a nod but Hector interrupts any words of agreement before they leave you, “It can wait.”

Your head swivels in his direction, and you feel the other three look towards him as well. 

“Hector, you know it’s not that simple, we can’t risk a coup,” Dario retorts but you glimpse the apologetic light in his eyes. “That’s a viable threat right now, especially with us away.”

Hector crosses his arms, standing back and appearing in deep thought. It’s a show more so than anything. His mind is already made. “Yeah, like those old assholes could handle any heat from us if they tried,” he mutters dismissively and moves his quicksilver stare your way. In this light, gazing down at you, his face appears harsher, the line of his jaw even more cutting and chiselled. “They’re not going to drop dead overnight, and if they do, good fucking riddance. It can wait till tomorrow. Now go and see the Little Saint before he slips into another coma.”

Quiet hangs in the air after his passive words. No one disagrees because he’s not wrong but…

Santino. 

_God_.

The idea of seeing him again, seeing him _alive_, has felt like a hazy dream for this past week. Impossible to grasp and hold onto. But now, he’s a hallway away from you, and your heart ceases at the mere concept of seeing him once more, hearing his voice. 

You’ve…

You never thought you'd get to come back to him. Either you were going to end up dead, or he would. 

No happy endings. Not for people like you. 

It’s cruel how downright hilarious those words now seem. How fitting. Santino, who was led by vengeance for most of his life, was quite right about no happy endings at least. How would he even react if he learned that what happened to you in Chicago was neither of your faults? How would he take the knowledge that him almost dying in Prague was orchestrated? 

Sickness crushes your stomach and you have to force back a gag that locks your stomach and chest. 

You can’t…

No…not right now. 

Right now all you want is just to see him, to hear him breathe, and know it’s not a cruel dream, him still being here. 

With a stiff nod, you stand, still unbalanced. 

“Are you okay, V?” Julian asks cautiously, a glimmer in his brown eyes betraying his concern, and you feel the way your features soften in response to it.

You can feel that same question emitting from the other two as well. Hector just watches you, and it’s near uncomfortable because you’re afraid that he’s seeing more than he should. Enough, at least, that he might demand more and right now—

You need time before you can even begin to verbalise what's happened in the last several hours. Before you can face the horrific reality you now know. 

“I will be.”

Lying has become simpler with years. 

Eventually, you might even believe those lies yourself. 

With another sweep over their unmoving figures, you order a simple, “Continue with the cleanup. If you need anything, you know where to find me. If anything happens or you find her...”

“We’ll let you know,” Dario reassures and you nod with a grateful glance in his direction.

You depart the main living area, ignoring the eyes you feel glued to your figure. You trust the Four to handle the rest. 

Away from the bustling main living area, the apartment feels eerily quiet. A sort of blanket of darkness seems to hang over it; suffocating and cavernous. Putting one foot in front of another, you cut the distance between Santino’s bedroom and yourself, wondering how he might handle seeing you again. How you will handle seeing him. 

_I choose you. _

Your last interaction at the gallery loops through your mind, and you’re so caught in it—in the way his hand felt on your face, the way his eyes had shone with muted happiness and hope when you asked him to take you away—that your feet nearly tangle when you spot a lone figure situated by his door. Always guarding and watchful. 

Ares stands facing the hallway, her firm stare focused on your approaching form, and face bruised from her fight with John. Her left hand hangs limp beside her body, heavily bandaged, and your heart jumps to your mouth when your eyes meet. 

Your expression crumbles and you stagger forward, throwing your arms around her in a painfully tight hug. There is only a split second of hesitation from her before she does the same. The faint mark from the punch she threw at your face the last time you saw each other has healed by now but this time you sense her relief, not anger, directed at you. 

There are several minutes in which you don’t speak, simply gripping her to you, and breathing deeply. Your eyes press shut and you feel the shakiness in her grip on you as well. 

By the time you part, you’ve just managed to gather the tatters of your self-control, immediately gripping her wrist and lifting it to you. 

“Your hand?”

Her face is stony, haunted. 

_Permanent nerve damage._

Your heart stutters to a stop, a hot flush rolling through your limbs when her slow signs register in your mind. Your focus on her face, your chin wobbling but Ares stands there unmoving, unshaken, every inch the determined woman you know her to be. 

“Can it heal?”

She hesitates. _Not fully_. 

Your eyes slip shut again, your throat tight, and your grip on her wrist constricts. 

“I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t sign her reply, only turns her face away from you, and you know what that’s like, not wanting someone else to see you as less than what they know you to be. 

An ache stabs through your ribcage and straight into your heart, mangling it. Your fingers slide away from her wrist in mute understanding. She needs time. 

Ares carved her way into power by sheer hard work and skill, not letting anything hold her back, and if she can’t use her hand fully…

No. She’s not the type to give up. Even if her hand mobility doesn’t fully come back, you have no doubts about her perseverance. Her sense of duty will keep her in the ranks, nor do you see Santino just throwing her away. You've been through too much together. 

“How is he?” you can’t help but ask because she knows him, truly knows him, and what she sees is different from what others see in him. 

Her bright eyes are empty though, no tells, and she only signs with some difficulty, _Go and see_.

Despite reassurances that the Italian is fine, you can’t help but feel the cramp of nerves deep in your gut. Opening the door, you slip inside wordlessly, closing it behind you with a faint _click_. 

The room is shadowed, nothing but a dusty bedside lamp remains on, and quiet as the hallway outside. 

Santino D’Antonio doesn’t resemble himself anymore. At least not the way you remember him in your memories. 

In your mind, he’s larger than life and so, so alive. Practically bursting with a vivacious thirst for everything. He’s never known how to settle, practically brimming with that ambition, that unwillingness to bend to anyone. All you remember is a sly smirk and bright green eyes, overflowing with confidence and…

Fondness, longing, something uniquely yours every time he looked your way that you forgot to savour while you had it. 

Now, Santino lays on his bed hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, and it feels like gazing at a shade of a man you know. There is a table full of medication littering the furthest corner of the room, and it seems so wrong to see his spacious, stylish bedroom turned into a makeshift hospital room. 

He’s motionless, his breaths slow, a little irregular. His tanned skin is paler than usual, his face still scratched from his confrontation with John back at the gallery. 

Wrapped around his head sits a thick, white gauze, the wound against his temple covered securely. There is notable swelling and bruising there as well, and you draw a deep breath, wondering silently if it’s hurting him right now, if that’s why he’s asleep. 

Your lungs empty of oxygen all at once at that thought. 

It takes another minute before you order your muscles to move, direct your feet to take steps forward. 

He doesn’t stir at your approach, his expression slack, exhausted seemingly even in his sleep. 

He looks muted, washed out, drained; and you nearly fall into the seat next to his bed, not taking your eyes away from his face once. 

Santino’s lips are slightly parted and you count every slow breath that leaves them. It’s the only assurance you have that he’s still alive, still with you. 

It pains you to see him like this but it’s good to be here too. 

Your eyes drag over every inch of him, and you reach out, pausing just before your hand touches his. 

You’re not the woman he promised to steal away. You’re not _you_. The woman he said he will guard and show the world to. You’re not his _amore_ or _bella_ or _cara mia_. 

But even if you’re not, even if…

Your fingertips ghost over his knuckles; a delicate, gentle touch that skims over the bumps and the ridges. The Camorra ring gleams on your finger, brushing against his skin, and your breaths turn shallow. Heat blooms where your skin meets, spreading through your nerves, and your expression creases in an effort to hold yourself together. 

He’s still _warm_. 

Even now, after everything. 

He’s still Santino. 

Your hand settles on top of his fully, and a choked breath pushes through your clenched teeth. 

You let it stay there, leeching off his warmth like always, and your heart calms with every beat. The heat in that hand laps at your senses, soothing everything away even if only for a moment. Just for a breath, everything is good and calm. You’re safe here with him. And so is he. 

“I’ll never let him touch you,” you vow lowly, your words barely audible over the sound of the heart monitor but they settle in your bones all the same. 

Him or anyone else dear to you. 

The Elder will lose his hands before you let him come anywhere near the Italian.

Or John for that matter. 

John…

He was gone from that alley by the time the Adjudicator had the staff check for a body. That was the only sign you needed that the gamble paid off. No one would be eager to steal a dead body unless it had other uses. Bitterness wells in you when you recall Adjudicator’s snippy attitude just before you departed the Continental. Still, it worked, you remind yourself for the hundredth time, and for now, that will have to be enough. You hope with every piece of you that wherever John is he’s recovering well, that he’s okay. It hurts to remember his betrayed expression and plea for help. But it had to be done. It was the only way to keep him safe. To give him that fighting chance. You know Winston will start looking into his possible whereabouts soon enough, but for now, getting New York back under control is the most paramount task ahead. 

Besides you already have a good inkling as to who might have taken him. 

Your head lowers with overwhelming exhaustion, but you try not to think about the future. Right now, you’re here, breathing, and that’s all that matters. 

Your thumb traces the shape of Santino’s knuckles, oddly soothing, the melody of the heart monitor dulling your senses. The hard knot between your shoulder blades you haven’t noticed until then loosens with each passing second, and despite how drained you feel, you can’t quite stop. In that little touch, you find something to hold onto; a sanctuary in a storm, a hurricane you had to weather alone until this moment. 

The hand beneath yours shifts suddenly, turning, and grasps your fingers weakly. 

Your pulse quickens, your heart thudding so loudly it overpowers the sound of the machines. A tingle shoots up your arm, robbing you of speech momentarily before you drag yourself back to the present. Your head snaps up, your neck muscles hurting from the suddenness of it, and you draw a tremulous breath. One, then another. 

Santino’s eyes are open, blinking blearily up at you but his fingers tremble around yours. 

One of his eyes—the right side, the side where the bullet skimmed over his temple—has lost the white of his eye, creating a drowning pool of scarlet red. Blood has spilt over his eyeball, only the vivid green of his iris visible in the sea of red. It almost makes you recoil but you only hold his hand tighter in yours, searching his features. You want to ask how he feels, if his eye hurts, his head. You want to ask him a thousand things but all you do is sit there and gape at him, your knuckle tight grip unfaltering. 

“Hey, grumpy.”

You’re not sure how much time passes before you manage to choke those words out. Frail and feeble, hushed like a louder tone of voice might break him. Or you, maybe you both. 

Santino exhales slowly, his whole chest moving with it, and his stare is still fierce like it's always been despite the weariness there. A slow, deliberate drag over every contour of your face follows. You realise, then, that he’s drinking you in just as much as you are him. 

_He thought Wick killed you_. 

Hector’s voice rings through your head, and you blink a few times to banish his voice, the sadness that gnaws on you when you realise the maelstrom of emotions that must be raging through the Italian right now. 

So you give him time. Let him hold your hand—and truly it feels more like you’re gripping onto one another, neither of you willing to let go—and watch him while he does the same with you. 

“How is it…” his raspy voice finally slices through the air. “That...I get shot in the head...yet you manage to look worse, amore.”

You choke on a half-laugh, half-sob, a wobbly smile blooming across your face even if it feels fragmented. 

“Well,” you begin wetly, breathing deeply. “You’re the pretty one from the two of us.”

A slight smile tugs one side of his mouth; a shadow of his usual charm but seeing it warms you to the marrow, chasing the chill of blood and glass away. 

“Pretty?” he whispers. “How...flattered you think so.”

He takes you in for another moment, lingering on the bruises, your split eyebrow, his slight grin fading. 

“What happened to you?”

You ignore his inquiry, pressing him for a far more urgent, “How are you feeling? Your eye…”

Santino’s features slacken with discontentment at your blatant dismissal of his question but with a hard swallow, he indulges you. 

“Damaged optic nerves from bullet impact,” he informs you, taking care with each word in a way that betrays how hard he’s trying to stay coherent for you. “My sight has been...reduced.”

“Reduced?” you echo, dread spreading through you like a slice of a hot knife, numbing your limbs. “By how much? Can it recover?”

The man takes a while to reply. You’re not sure if it’s a reluctance to voice what he knows or fatigue. Likely a mix of both. 

“Notably,” he says, at last, his voice scratchy. “Likelihood of...losing sight in that eye completely is... high. They will try to see if some of the damage can be reversed once...my injuries heal. Another operation most likely.”

Your head bows, still holding his hand, and you can’t help but reach out again, laying another hand on top of his. Your forehead follows, pressing against your laced palms while you inhale deep, controlled breaths in an attempt to calm yourself. Your quivering breaths fill the space between you while you process that, trying to dislodge the grip of guilt that’s eroding your heart.

Despite that attempt, everything chews at you, everything crushes your shoulders all at once, and you feel your expression break.

You can’t do this anymore. You’re so tired of being strong. Of pretending that you are. 

“Amore…”

You shake your head frantically, feeling tears burning your eyes while you try desperately to hide them from him. This is the last thing he needs right now. 

“I’m here,” Santino whispers, squeezing your fingers to him. “I’m _here_.”

“You almost _died_,” you choke out, your voice cracking, splintering completely till you’re barely articulate. “I held you...and...and there was so much blood. You—”

A soft breath escapes him, and you hear the heart monitor pick up in response to your clear distress. “Closer,” he urges quietly. “Come closer. I’m here, cara mia.”

A hiccup slips past your trembling lips, and you lift your head, meeting his staid stare, his eyebrows knitting harshly when he notices your wounded expression. 

“Come closer,” he implores, this time in Italian. 

Shaking your head, you dismiss his offer, “I can’t...I’ll hurt you.”

You’re too afraid to cause more harm, but the man before you releases a small sound in response to your words. In that sound, you hear the Santino you know. Something haughty and dismissive. 

You never thought you would miss that, miss him. 

“The only...thing hurting me right now,” he reveals to you tightly, a play at self-restraint. “Is you not being closer.”

You peer at him, blinking your tears away because you’re—

You're supposed to be stronger and better than that, right?

But you don’t want to be strong right now. Right now, all you want…

Your hands slip away from his, and you don’t fail to notice how his fingers constrict around empty air, seeking you out. Ignoring that, you stand, nudging yourself closer to him, and Santino doesn’t need to shift in his large bed to make you room. Carefully, monitoring him closely, you move onto the bed, gingerly slotting yourself beside him. You lay on your side, and his arm wraps around your shoulders at once, pulling you to his chest. 

You hear and feel how much effort that takes him, a low hiss of breath escaping him that betrays the discomfort he must still be in. Biting your lip, you settle beside him, both of you silent for a while. 

He’s warm. 

Your eyes burn again but from relief this time. 

Outside the scent of chemicals—cold and medical, sharp on your nose—you still smell faint traces of the cologne you’ve made him mixing with sweat. 

You’re about to comment on it but his hand settles on your head, stroking down unhurriedly. You feel his balmy breath tickle the top of your hair and squeeze your eyes at the sensation, letting it cocoon you in safety. 

It’s then that you feel and notice something around his wrist. 

Seizing his hand, you skim your fingers over the contours of the golden bracelet on his wrist. A simple, ordinary thing, in many ways similar to a necklace around your throat. 

“You wore it.”

“Surprised?”

His voice is faint but you hear the content in the low timbre of it. That mutual sense of ease relaxes and calms you as well. 

“No, well maybe,” you answer distractedly, tracing the gold. “Maybe a bit.”

Santino steals your fingers in another hold but you feel how hard it is for him to prop his arm up, so you lower your joined fingers closer to you. You hold them pressed to your chest and hear him sigh at the motion, at the delicate way you fold them to you. 

It was a gift. Something you brought back for him years ago from one of your many trips abroad. It wasn’t even given to him for a special occasion. It was simply something you saw that reminded you of the Head of Camorra. 

“It was my coronation,” he says but you hear the dull wariness in his words. “I wanted a piece of you with me.”

You press yourself closer at those words, barely any space between you now. It makes sense, the last time you had spoken—over the phone just after Gianna’s death—your conversation dissolved into a painful exchange of hurtful words. You had nearly given up on him, felt let down even if you understood his reasoning, and he had reconfirmed to you a simple truth that he will always choose you. 

_Worth any price. _

His gamble for power and your freedom both. One you openly scorned, and he no doubt believed he would never see you again after that. The finality in his voice back then had been telling enough. 

Ultimately, at that gallery, he had chosen you above all else though, and you haven’t forgotten that. 

“Santi…”

“No, amore,” he interjects carefully, tugging you ever closer. “Not right now. It can wait. Rest.”

Your features slacken and you press your nose against his collar, savouring the heat soaking into your cheek. 

“I’ve missed you,” you confess thickly, your voice frail. “So _much_. I...”

His mouth brushes over your hair despite the pained breath that follows right after. “I missed you more,” he whispers softly, a touch devious, and your heart aches in happiness to hear it again. “This is no competition, amore, but I do believe I have you beat.”

“I promised to myself that…” you fade off and it takes another minute to find your voice again. “That if I made it back to you, I would tell you how I would’ve missed you more than anything if you died.”

Your arm stretches across his waist, gripping him close, and your ear presses against his chest. Santino’s heart thuds, slow and steady, and you soak up the sound. Nearly shivering at the comfort it brings you. For the first time since all this began, you feel some semblance of solace embrace you. Hold you close. 

A shudder rolls through Santino’s body, or at least something close to it. You know without words just how much that means to him, and you savour the relief of being able to keep your promise to him. 

“Hm, yes, it seems I’m rather lucky in that regard,” he voices softly between measured inhales, his nose digging deeper into your hair. “I have a rather deadly guardian angel to watch over me, or so it seems.”

Beginnings of a laugh tickle the back of your throat. “That’s a _horrible_ line.” 

“Ah, _perhaps_, but you still smiled.”

God, you really have missed him. So dearly. Him, and the way he makes everything awful just that little bit more bearable. No matter how temporarily. 

“No, I didn’t.”

A sleepy, soft, “Liar.”

You hope he can feel the smile stretching your mouth right now. Back inside your hotel room, drowning in your despair, you feared that you might have been robbed of this ability for good. It’s good to know it’s still yours. 

The truth doesn’t exist in this darkened room. Neither do his injuries or the reality that soon you will have to say goodbye to the man holding you so carefully to him yet again. 

Nothing exists right now, only you and him. 

And that’s enough. 

* * *

**PRESENT**.

“What if we just kill them?”

“Great plan, idiot.”

“Because your plan is _so_ much better.”

“Stop it,” you interrupt, shooting both Julian and Step a disapproving look each. Both men fall quiet at once, and you resume your ponderous pacing across the living area. Fire burns behind you merrily, washing the room in a faded orange glow. It’s late evening and although you departed the Continental before lunch, you stopped by Doc’s clinic first before finally making your way to the penthouse. “We don’t need arguing right now. Dario said it went well, so we’ll just monitor them for now.”

“Sartinis are unruly, they always have been,” Dario voices neutrally, a hint of approval there when your eyes meet, his fingers laced between his parted legs. His elbows dig into his strong thighs, a few loose strands framing his bearded face. Despite his long flight, he doesn’t appear fatigued. Eyes alert and back straight. “Their displeasures about your position quietened after Santino addressed the situation himself but, well…”

“They’re still assholes, and not to be trusted,” Step interjects, sounding colder than usual—a personal dislike, clearly. “The number of side deals they’ve tried to pull over the years…”

He fades off with a low whistle and a deliberate rise of his brows. “Not sure why Papa Giovanni kept them around,” he adds with a quiet snort, fixing the sunglasses sitting perched on top of his dark hair.

“Because they’re useful,” Julian stresses, though the defeated note in his voice betrays how many times they must have had this disagreement in the past. He pauses with cleaning his pistol, his nose twitching more frequently now that his moustache is temporarily gone. Shaven, much to his dismay. He rotates the gun he’s holding, always one to have his hands busy. “There’s power in numbers, and Giovanni embodied the phrase keep your enemies close. It was...sicuro.”

You don’t doubt the fact that it was secure.

But they have been making too much noise lately and it hasn’t helped your cause. 

A month of dealing with Camorra has effectively installed a near-constant headache between your temples. You don’t have time for their inner conflicts and squabbles, and even less patience for them trying to slip by the cracks of your command. 

They just want you _sworn in,_ or so they keep saying, but you have refused each offer of initiation. You will not confine yourself to another pact—this time for life—all in the name of a temporary position. Santino has been recovering well, and it has steadied the turbulent situation somewhat. Soothing the volatile, bubbling thing it was when you first returned to New York and retook your position. 

“Just because you like their heirs a _little too_ much, Jules, doesn’t mean—”

Julian scowls openly, flipping Step off who only laughs with a devious cock of his head. “Eat shit, Step.”

The sharpshooter mutters something in Italian too quickly for you to catch but Step only blows him a slow kiss in return, dropping his round sunglasses back on his nose with a gleaming grin. 

Hector remains silent despite the bickering, leaning against a wall beside the fireplace since the moment you stepped into the room. Always slightly apart from others. All you’ve heard from him this entire debriefing has been the metal click of his lighter opening and closing. He’s been too quiet lately. 

You turn on your heels, your arms still crossed over your chest, and your eyes briefly flicker in his direction. 

You almost stop when you find him already staring at you, eyes narrowed, probing. The blue-grey seems to glow in the orange that bathes one side of his face, and you spin your head back towards the other three. 

Ares is seeing a doctor, you passed each other just as you got here, and Roberto went with her. No one goes alone anywhere anymore. Your direct order. Partially due to Female Lover still being out there somewhere. 

But also because you don’t trust anyone from your circle not to have a target attached to their heads right now. 

That’s why you’re playing unassuming, ignorant, carrying along with your duties as would be expected of you. You’ve been on the lookout for any eyes on you but there’s been nothing. It would be easy to convince yourself that you’re not being watched but you know better than that. 

The Elder’s eyes and ears could be anyone and everyone. 

He doesn’t appear to be interfering with your three months like agreed but you haven’t let your guard down. 

Your circle of trusted people has whittled down to a disturbingly small number. And even then, only Winston and Charon know what’s really going on. But their picture is missing puzzle pieces too, you remind yourself with a slight frown. 

Elites continue chattering between themselves, and you can’t help but wonder how they will take the information you will be sharing with them soon. The only reason you haven’t done so already was because you figured it would be safer to keep it on the down-low for a bit. See if the situation turns. But it’s in part a lie as well. The disquieting truth is that it took you weeks to even begin processing everything that happened a month ago.

You’re still unsure if you have accepted it, either, or if you ever will. 

“I’m going to see how Santino is doing.”

Those words slice through the room, silencing everyone present. Dotted across the twin sofas situated in the large space, the Elites turn to face you as one. 

“You know what to do,” you tell them, and look towards Dario. “Try and get some rest. You've been running yourself too thin with these back and forth trips.” 

Because Hector has to stay where the command is and Step has been working surveillance constantly while also keeping an eye on the broader playfield. That left only Dario and Julian with the availability to travel back to Italy whenever the need arose. Which has been often. 

Camorra demanded that Santino should be brought back to Naples, or at least Rome, the moment news of his surgery being a success became public. Blood of Camorra belongs back in his homeland, they insisted. But Santino refused them himself, saying that New York is his home till he feels capable of travel. The show of debility had startled you initially but now you doubt that was the real reason he refused them. 

Dario stands, taking unhurried steps towards you, and you feel the heavy, heated weight of his palm settle on the curve of your shoulder. A squeeze; brief as it is caring. 

“Do the same, V,” he says but not unkindly, the rumble of his voice genuinely troubled. “You’ve been tearing yourself apart this past month. Don’t think we haven’t noticed. We’re not in any rush to sort this, and things have been going well. _You’re_ doing well.” 

Oh, if only he knew.

But Santino first, then them. 

Still, his words soften your hardened demeanour, your features slackening. He’s not wrong. You’ve felt strung-out and stale for days now. You barely sleep anymore, hardly eat unless it’s Winston or Santino reminding you—it’s not from the lack of desire for it, either, there’s simply no time for it anymore. 

You place your palm on top of his, feeling the rough texture of his hand. Years of bloodshed have made them so. “Maybe we both need a vacation. Maybe we all do.”

Dario chuckles with a nod; a deep, reassuring sound that reminds you of those long months you lived with them. 

“I propose a card game later!” Step chirps from his spot, another echo of the past. 

Julian raises his hand in the air. “Here, here. I feel like robbing Step blind today.”

The chameleon laughs loudly. “_Per favore_,” he dismisses. “As if you _could_.”

Dario shakes his head with an amused smile and gives your shoulder another brief squeeze. “Join us later? We’ll wait until Ares and Roberto come back.”

Your attention slides towards Hector but the leader of Elites is playing with a cigarette in his hand; an agitated, restless motion that perplexes you. Your examination lasts only seconds, and you dip your head in agreement when your gaze returns to the hulking man before you. 

“Sure. Hope you’re ready to lose.”

“Cocky,” he shoots back with a brief chortle and a pat on your shoulder, releasing his hold on you. “Let’s see if you can back it up later.”

“Are we forgetting she beat Hector once?” Step calls out sweetly. 

Hector finally joins the conversation with a growl of, “Once, chicken shit. By downplaying her abilities.”

“Still happened though,” he replies with a satisfied smile and peeks at you over his sunglasses with a wink. “Learned from the best of course.”

“Sure as fuck hope you don’t mean yourself,” Hector mutters with a crinkle of his brows, effectively pushing his expression towards antagonistic though his words lack heat. 

With a roll of your eyes, you wave at them over your shoulder, heading towards Santino’s room. Daily meetings always end up dissolving into little spats between them. They’re playful more than anything and you’re used to them by now. It's just sometimes easy to forget that they’re grown men and deadly individuals capable of halting small armies. 

Despite recovering well, Santino still requires a lot of rest, and even more examinations. He does exercises daily, everything from mobility to mental recollection tests, making sure that there’s been no brain damage from the gunshot. 

Light shines from under his door, and you rap your knuckles against it, waiting. 

“Come in.”

Lips twitching at the call of Italian, you push the door open, stepping inside. 

Santino is on his bed, a book in hand, and his head lifts at the sound of your entrance. 

The gauze is gone, most of the swelling has subsided in the last several weeks, but a makeshift bandage still rests against the right side of his head, changed daily. He’s been healing but the wound still requires care. 

“Hey.”

His features soften when he spots you, the apathetic light fading from his eyes as he lowers the book back on the bedside table. “Ah, amore,” he greets happily, his mouth fluttering, clearly pleased to see you. “I should have known you were back. Things are only ever this calm around here when you’re present.”

You don’t hold back your slight laugh, shaking your head. You approach the bed, feeling the weight of your fatigue, and Santino’s intent gaze tracks your movement. 

Most of the red has retreated from his eye but you can still glimpse spots of blood when his eye travels. He should be wearing glasses, apparently the damage was severe enough to warrant a pair, but he’s opted for a lens instead. It’s still unclear if any of the harm can be undone or halted long term. 

He acts like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect him, but you know it does. It’s a reality that would grind on anyone, much less him. Santino has never handled pity well though, so you haven’t pushed him on the topic.

“How are you?” you wonder curiously, sitting down beside him. 

Santino wastes no time, grasping your hand in his and hoists it on the bed beside him. Your eyes close briefly at the contact, another stolen instance you’ll lock away and hoard for later. 

“Resting,” he stresses teasingly, his lips stretching further at the look you shoot him. “As you are so insistent I should be.”

“Because I’m _right_.”

His tongue clicks. “You’re _always_ right, amore.”

His fingers twine around yours, tugging your hand to him, his smile wide and crooked, and you shake your head again. You observe him for a bit—track the flutter of his long lashes, that sly gleam of his hooded stare, the asymmetrical quirk of his lips, always looping slightly to the right. His curls are unstyled, wild, the strip of hair they had to shave for operation already growing back. 

“Bastard.”

He laughs deeply with a flash of teeth, and the sound of it leaves you dizzy. Warm. 

“You won’t have me any other way though, no?”

Fighting back yet another groan, you hold the light feeling inside your chest, “Sorry, _arrogant_ bastard,” you correct, smiling faintly when he lifts your hand, planting a brief kiss against the back of your knuckles with near palpable delight. 

Liquid heat tingles up your arm but you don’t pull away. 

You haven’t talked about what transpired between you at that gallery. Easier to pretend, easier to slink back to the routine you’ve had for years. Together but not quite. Close but not close enough. 

The Italian is unaware of your inner turmoil, however, his gaze focusing on your hands. He examines the Camorra Head ring on your finger—the one he insisted you should hold onto while he’s recovering—and you lick your bottom lip. 

“You should take back command.”

He doesn’t move, still examining your joined hands. “You’re doing brilliantly,” he notes absentmindedly, caught in some spell. 

Maybe but only thanks to the Four and their help. It’s not what this is about, either. It’s time to start moving the pieces in preparation for everything ahead. That includes Santino back in full control of Camorra. 

“I’m an impostor,” you state dryly, trying to ignore the heat his thumb tracing your hand generates. “And families of Camorra are happy to remind me as much.”

A blink, and then the man you know is gone. The Smiling Shark returns, cold-blooded and deadly to the bone, utterly remorseless. Any and all traces of fondness drain away from his features, every round edge of his face tightening into something downright foreboding. “_Who_?”

His eyes lift, and from beneath the taut curve of his strong brows, he appears murderous. Wild and dangerous and raging with that intensity you’ve forgotten could be so imposing. 

“That’s not what this is about, Santino.”

His head slants, a rebuttal no doubt on his tongue, but you squeeze his hands between yours, reaching to remove the golden ring. “It’s yours,” you insist. “It should be on your hand.”

He frees his hands from yours, halting you just as the ring drags to your middle knuckle. He holds your hands for a second, and then pinches the ring, pushing it back down on your finger.

“It’s just a ring,” he says quietly, resolute. 

Just a ring. 

It’s hardly that. It’s been his whole life, his only goal. The only thing he’s ever cared about or wanted.

Before it’s all said and done, he will have to embrace that title. He has to. 

Words burn inside your mouth but your tongue feels swollen and dry. Everything that happened a month ago plays on your mind in a treacherous whirl of dread. What if it all repeats? What if this is all you’re destined to do? Save him only to lose him again?

Those bright depths seek you out again, and a frown mars his face at whatever he finds there, effectively twisting his mouth into an unhappy line. 

“What is it?”

You force a half-smile.

“It can wait.”

You move to pull away but his hold constricts, keeping you in place. He studies you for a bleak instance of near uncharacteristic moroseness. 

“No,” he argues. “If it matters to you it matters to me, bella.”

This time your grin is more genuinely amused, an eyebrow springing up in open astonishment. “What’s this?” you tease lightly, tilting your head to give him a searching sweep like you’re amazed by what you’re seeing. “Santino D'Antonio being _considerate_?”

His answering flat stare makes you smirk. 

“Hilarious, amore,” he mutters flatly. “Truly.”

He’s still wearing the golden bracelet, and you watch how it catches the light with every veer of his wrist. 

“Tell me.”

Your eyes skip to him, nerves prickling at his tone; at the low, but an unquestionable tendril of power there. 

He’s changed. 

Even with a bandage on his head and sitting in his bed, he has an air of a man worthy of the title he now wears. 

He will be a good boss. Except there is one problem, a worry, that haunts you still. You’re not sure if your plan can work if you don’t have an assurance that what happened previously will not repeat again. 

Neither of you speaks for several minutes, simply peering at each other. Santino’s attention drifts away soon enough, and it’s habitual, you recall. He often occupies himself with little things when it comes to you. Watching how your lips shape words, how you work, exploring what little skin he could on the rare occasion you allowed him the privilege of that touch. Still selfish, the way he keeps stealing, but it’s a soft thing. Like the heat of those sun rays on your cheeks and nose. 

_Santino D’Antonio_. 

His thumb brushes over the ruby of his father’s ring, his features a smidge more at ease now. The bloodthirsty monster pacified, focused on something indulgent. 

“I know that you’re in love with me.”

It slips out so easily but the silence those words birth is suffocating to a point you could hear a pin drop. 

You’re not sure if Santino is still breathing. 

“I’ve known for a long while now but...I pushed it away because I was scared,” you tell him, trying to articulate your thoughts over the painful beats of your heart. “Because I didn’t think I could trust you. In truth, I doubted I could ever let anyone else in after John.”

He tugs his hands back at the mention of the other assassin, his guard slamming back in place. An impenetrable wall blocks any feelings or thoughts away from you. He doesn’t interrupt but his shoulders are set in an immutable hunch, his breaths forcefully slow. Your fingers curl, hardly registering the supple cotton underneath. 

“But your choice at the gallery proved me wrong,” you admit quietly, not failing to notice the flutter of his jaw at the reminder. Gathering valour, you push forward, not taking your eyes away from him. “But Santino...what you did—it was beyond stupid and reckless. You almost _died_ because of it. I know it wasn’t your fault you were shot but we all played a part in it, we’re _all_ guilty of this. If...if this is love then I don’t want it.”

A harsh, measured breath creeps past his clenched teeth, his body jolting at the last part. Reaching for him, you grasp his forearm firmly, pulling his attention back to you. His gaze bites into you, guarded as before but you glimpse whispers of some emotion that curdles your stomach blazing there. 

“After all these years, do you truly believe that I care for you so little that your death wouldn’t—”

Your voice cracks, and you swallow the bite of pain lodged in your lungs. “I need you,” is your tiny exhale of syllables, your fingers trembling around his arm before you force it to stillness. “I—I can’t imagine...I just _need_ you. I care about you too much to let you destroy yourself for me.”

He’s still rigid and silent. You keep holding onto him, seeking something, but his guard is completely up. This time, the man who gives you everything, gives you nothing. 

“You swore to never abandon me,” you remind him weakly, a wisp of a breath, near insecure but then you shove your emotions aside and sink your fingers into his skin. “So swear to me now that you will never do something like that again. No matter how much danger I’m in. Promise me.”

Santino’s hands ball into fists at his sides, his skin straining until you can hear the phantom creaking of it. 

“You know that I cannot.”

Low. Resolute. A pitch of tone that leaves no room for arguments. 

“Santi—”

“What is it, exactly, that you want from me, amore?” he demands sharply, his attention snapping to you and stilling you in your seat. The blistering emotion you find there momentarily robs you of oxygen. “To tell you that I will no longer _care_? Ah, perhaps that I will stop putting you first? Or maybe you want to know what it felt like to have a bullet shot at my head because of it? Let me ease your mind, then,” a swift inhale, and his stare is uncompromising when he spits out, “I would do it again. And _again_. Perhaps next time dear Johnathan can finish the job and make it easier for everyone.”

What happened with John at the Continental is the only thing you have divulged to him in the past month. He wisely said nothing when you revealed the fact that John is still out there somewhere and alive. The Italian only looked away as if he could ignore those words with enough will. 

But this…

This confirms your worst fear. 

Santino will always choose you over others, and while once that would have left you tender with happiness, now it only stokes embers of fear in your chest. 

If it all goes the way you think it will…

What will become of him then?

What will be left?

“If you died…” you breathe; a devastated, quiet thing, the only vulnerability you can allow yourself anymore. “It would break my heart.”

Santino’s dark head turns to face you fully, and his desolate smile hurts. “Would it, (Name)?” he questions solemnly, and that wounds more, the fact that he still doubts what you feel this much. But can you blame him? You did this yourself. Even when you want to, you can’t give him what he wants. You never might now. Santino shakes his head, dismayed, his voice softening with some raw emotion you have no name for, “I know how this story goes. Do you truly believe that I do not? It will always be _him_.”

_Let me pretend_, his words seem to plead, and an acute pain punches through your chest. 

Your fingers slip away from him, settling back on the covers, your head bowing. 

“If not for me then at least for others—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “I don’t need them. I need—”

“But _they_ need _you_,” you snap harshly, your nerves snapping like an elastic band that’s gone through too much abuse. A calming exhale follows, and you level a pleading stare on him. “Camorra, Santi. Your dream. Think of that little boy who looked up at the sky from his home in Naples and dreamt of the _world_. Think of what he had to sacrifice to get you here. You owe it to him to be here for your family. You’re they’re head now, their Don. You _won_. You finally have what you wanted long before you ever knew me.”

Santino’s smile is slow coming. 

You hate the sight of it. 

Hate the way he looks so miserable and forlorn because it’s worse than anger or resentment. This subdued defeat oozing from him is harder to face, harder to hold your resolve against. 

“My dream,” he repeats under his breath, a trace of disdain scratching his tone. “My dream has long since changed, amore,” he informs you blankly, his face and voice devoid of emotion. 

You’re not sure what you can say to that. Your brain is completely wrung dry after the month you had. Because despite not being able to voice it, you know perfectly well what he’s trying to say. “Santino...”

“You should go, cara,” he prompts mildly, turning away from you after a brief pause and towards the glimmering New York skyline outside his window. “I’m tired.”

You linger though, just gazing at him while you still can. These moments are so rare now, and the time you have left to steal more memories with him keeps shrinking. He doesn’t turn back towards you, staring out towards the big, wide world. Lowering your head, you nod in defeat and rise to your feet. 

Heading towards the door, you wait for him to stop you, to call out your name. 

He doesn’t. 

* * *

The terrace is windy and tranquil on this night. Darkness has gobbled up any remnants of daylight, and the only visibility remaining is due to the dim pool lights and glowing anthill of New York City beyond the building limit. 

Arms crossed, you savour the wind and the tickling laugh of night around you as you peer at the city below. The rest of the team is back inside the apartment, the card game well and truly underway now that Ares and Roberto are back, but you’ve excused yourself for fresh air.

Frankly, you’re not sure how long it might have been. 

An hour, at least, if you had to take a guess. 

An hour you’ve spent dissecting your conversation with Santino. Your intention was to tell him the truth about the Elder and all that happened in the week he was unconscious after his surgery. About the deal you had to make and your “staggeringly reckless but ultimately only plan” of action. According to Winston. 

You’ve only revealed pieces of your history with the Elder to Santino in the past. Both men existed as near separate chapters of your life. Nor did you ever expect the two to ever overlap again. 

The Elder was a secret, a nook of your heart you had hidden away like a selfish child. Now, his name sits against your heart like a bruise, a wound that refuses to heal, and you don’t know what to do with it. With the enormity of all you do feel, an invisible bleed. 

You wish he was easier to hate. And a part of you does feel hate but…

_But_. 

It still doesn’t change the things already set forth into motion. 

Wind blows again, kissing your cold neck and face like a greedy lover, and you slant your head backwards, not turning around as you call out an impassive, “Some might say it’s bad practice, sneaking up on a killer.” 

A bark of a laugh pierces the chilly air, and purposeful footsteps proceed in your direction. Hector’s frame towers over your own when he halts on your left, his leather jacket creaking when he pulls out a lighter from his pocket, a cigarette already dangling between his lips. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that priceless piece of advice in mind,” he drawls lazily, striking the lighter and lowering his head till the tip of his cigarette flares to life. “I’m just here for a smoke. Is that still allowed?” he adds, and you almost hear the roll of his eyes in those words.

“Won’t stop you even if I said no,” you deadpan with a shift of your weight from one foot to another, tightening your arms over your chest.

Hector releases a small sound—an amused, raspy thing; the type to vibrate in your bones—glancing down at you.

“See how well you know me,” he says wryly but you remain tight-lipped. From the corner of your eye, you observe how his head pitches back, blowing smoke through his nose in an audible exhale. Night and wind devour the smoke immediately but Hector stares up at the sky for another beat, taking another unhurried drag. 

He reminds you of a dragon, then. With those mighty wings around his throat, leather jacket and scent of tobacco smoke so rich around him. Not to mention his disagreeable attitude. That fleeting comparison almost brings a small smile to your face, alleviating your bad mood a little. 

Hector smokes, you let your mind wander, and it’s close to tranquil again, this lull between you. Certainly a first with the Devil of Camorra. 

“So are you gonna talk or just stand there like you’re about to shit yourself.”

His sudden and abrasive words startle you so much you jolt, your muscles tensing, coiling under your skin. 

You turn back towards him, only to find half of his cigarette now gone. In the darkness, his face strikes you as aggrieved. “Excuse me?”

His head angles your way, his eyes narrowed like earlier, nothing but two silver strips that survey you closely. He’s searching for tells. 

“You heard me,” he spits out. “Talk.”

“About what?”

The heel of his palm that was previously resting against the metal railing shifts, giving him enough room to push away abruptly. Whatever minute shred of patience he came into this conversation with seems to be fading swiftly. 

“Whatever the hell has been going on with you this last month would be a grand place to start.”

Your pulse spikes. So he did notice. You’ve been careful to lead steadily. Your tiredness would be expected and understandable considering how much you currently have on your plate—even if they still don’t know half of it—but not unusual. You’ve clearly let enough slip to make him question though, something you’ve been eager to avoid. 

“Nothing is going on with me,” you rebuke smoothly, your voice and expression both equally impassive. “You’re seeing smoke where there is none, Hector. I’m fine.”

He snorts in disbelief, his head hanging down while he grins with a dark sort of amusement. 

“Yeah,” he exhales bitterly. “You can feed that cotton candy bullshit to the rest of them but I don’t buy it for a second.”

Your arms unwind, dropping to your sides as you bite out a mocking, “Since when do _you_ care about me and my business?”

The man raises his chin, light catching on his lashes and along his sculpted jaw, a lace of dismissive coldness lurking in that motion.

“I don’t, but while that ring is on your hand, I answer to you,” he retorts briskly over another gust of wind that rattles the decking behind you. Hector lours at you, his full lips twisting with indignation. “You’re Camorra. Which means you’re me. And them,” he seethes, stabbing his index finger back towards the apartment. “And they give a shit about you a lot more than you do. Clearly.”

You know that. Doesn’t he get it? That they’re exactly the reason why you’re doing this in the first place. That you’re trying to spare them from the worst of it. This is the one time the truth—the whole truth—would do more harm than good. 

A soundless breath rattles through your lungs, and you ignore the nip you feel, the heaviness. “You don’t even like me.”

It’s a weak deflection but the only one you still have left. 

Hector stares at you in the darkness. You feel the weight of that regard like hands around your throat. 

“I don’t need to like you to follow your command,” he says eventually, his voice gruff, and you blink sluggishly, realising that you have nowhere else left to run. “Now give me the damn truth, huh?”

The truth. 

You’re not sure why—certainly not sure why _him_ of all people you could tell this to—but you open your mouth and start talking. 

And you _do_ tell him the truth. The whole truth, from start to finish, revealing every detail you kept even from Winston. 

By the time you’re done your mouth is parched and Hector has gone through four cigarettes.

His wrists rest on the railing, Camorra rings reflecting whispers of light and shoulders curved in a stiff line, only accented further by his leather jacket while he stares out towards the city. 

He didn’t interrupt you once, only listened. 

You wait for something, anything, but the Devil remains quiet.

Desperation works your tongue. “What? No, _you’re an idiot_?” you wonder aloud though it tastes like a demand, your words brittle, tone unsteady. “No, _you should have known better_?”

Hector steps back from the railing, his features a neutral mask, and you wait for him to just _speak already_.

But he doesn’t, he only gazes at you, and it feels like he’s looking at a graveyard. 

“Nah,” he dismisses a breath later, his voice empty. “It would have taken balls to do what you did. What are you going to do about it though?”

You force down a hysterical laugh. Does he think you’ve been sitting on your ass and twiddling your thumbs for the last month? “I’m working on it.”

His eyes flash. “Work harder.”

“It’s not that simple,” you spit back, staggering a step back and focusing on the city again. Everything blurs and you blink to clear your vision but it doesn’t work despite the staggering respite you do feel swirling through your body. “I’m _trying_, okay? My absolute best. I’m _trying_,” you mutter with a strangled breath. 

You feel, then, incredibly tiny. Just for a heartbeat, until you come back to yourself again, and back in control. 

Another stretch of shadows and howls of wind drifts by, then, “Does he know?”

No need to ask for clarification who the _he_ in question is. 

“No,” you reveal softly, still not looking towards the man before you. “Don’t tell him. Not yet.”

Wind teases your clothes again and you huff under your breath, watching the explosion of vapour. You haven’t realised till now how cold you’ve gotten.

“I know that expression,” Hector begins deliberately, forcing your eyes his way again. “You’re going to do something reckless and stupid, aren’t you?”

Your smile is grim, baring every single one of your teeth to a point your cheeks hurt. 

“Of course.”

* * *

Charon found you first. Facedown on the carpet, vacant and gone, splintered like the shards of mirror littering the ground. 

He asked no question, demanded no truths or reasons for the animalistic behaviour, nor the wrecked room. No, Charon did what he’s always done: help. Whenever you need it. He started with your desk, then the ruined carpet, the crushed mirror following right after. Cleaning and tidying, not calling for help and doing all the work himself because he knows how much you hate the idea of anyone coming into your space like this. 

Then came his voice, kind and deep, guiding you towards the loveseat with a careful hand, “Are you well Miss?”

You had no energy to pretend, croaking out only a pathetic, “No.”

“Would you like me to get Sir?” the concierge had suggested, and you don’t remember agreeing, but you must have because he was there one second and then gone the next. 

It had felt like an eternity until he returned. 

But Winston was in tow, always on the move and forethinking, his words piercing the air before he was even fully inside the room, “We don’t have long,” he had informed you, prompt and direct as always.

But then he took in the room, saw you, and the atmosphere changed. Everything did.

You told them then. Tripping and spluttering over every word. 

At least it’s becoming easier to view the carcass of your life without wanting to howl in agony at the misery of it all. 

Time does give perspective, though you’re not sure what exactly you’ve learned from all this just yet. 

“So you haven’t told him.”

Biting back down a groan, you keep pace, ignoring the tendrils of discontent in Winston’s low voice. Charon should be joining you soon in the vaults. It’s the only truly secure location still left inside the hotel—at least one where you don’t have to worry about eavesdropping or information leaks. It’s been the main hub of your secret meetings for the last several weeks for that reason alone. 

“No.”

“We can’t delay,” the manager’s words are back to the strident, calm order you’re used to with him but his words are still carefully picked. “There is a sense of urgency about this that you seem to be lacking.”

It takes effort to hold back your outright grimace. You’re more aware of time lately than he could ever fully understand. 

You might have stayed overnight at the penthouse apartment, handling Camorra business for most of the morning, followed by a visit at Doc’s clinic but now with the end of yet another day looming, you just feel weary. Weary and not in the mood for a lecture. 

“It’s not that simple.”

Winston pauses mid-stride, shooting you an incredulous look. “Yes,” he stresses. “It _is_ that simple. You open your mouth, you talk. _Simple_.” 

Ignoring the sharpness of his words, you only offer him, “And what if the same thing happens again?” you demand quietly, feeling the weight of those words, that worry, pressing into your shoulders. “He said he will protect me first. With what we’re planning, that’s a recipe for disaster. What if this time I’m not fast enough to save him when he does something dangerous?”

The older man studies you gravely, glancing around the deserted hallway once before nodding his head towards his office. A wordless demand. 

You enter first, sweeping your watchful gaze over the pitch-black room. The sturdy bookshelves, the rich carpet, wooden desk, the flutter of curtains—

“I think you fail to understand—”

This time you’re not too slow, too terror-stricken to react. 

This time you draw at the exact same second John Wick does, pointing your fully-loaded pistol at his face. Your body covers Winston’s, your eyes narrowed into slits at the shape lingering in the corner of the dark office. 

John, shrouded in darkness and glaring, does the same with his pistol. He doesn’t blink, a sliver of moonlight the only light illuminating his hardened features. 

That raven hair, those blazing eyes, and the presence of a man who could rip the world to shreds in a breath. Nothing but forbidding, harrowing sort of focus glares back at you, jaw clenched and mouth tight. No softness to be found in him now. He’s too furious, too betrayed. With the dark suit he dons, he’s every inch the Baba Yaga you’ve heard tales about—the nightmare no one survives, and you track each other’s every inhale and exhale. 

The Viper and the Boogeyman. 

Once partners, almost lovers, friends, and now…

“John.”

He doesn’t react, not even a twitch. 

Winston lingers behind you, having anticipated this turn of events from the start. You angle your shoulder, a human wall between the assassin and the manager. 

“John. It’s not what you think,” you call out cautiously, noting the slight twitch of his brows. Still, his merciless glower focuses on the man behind you. Predator observing his prey. Savouring the hunt. “Look at me. Please.”

The air is suffocating, and your grip on the pistol turns clammy. If he attacks, if he fires, can you commit to the idea of a fight? A true fight that is likely to end up with one of you dead because he never stops, and this is the one thing you will not let him have. You will deprive him of his revenge again, even if it costs your own blood. 

Gulping down another controlled breath, you try again, “We had to do it. Just let us explain,” you urge, and your voice thins, dropping into a quiet plea of, “_Please_, Jardani, trust me.”

That call of his real name snaps something in him. A blink, followed by another, and his stare mercifully, finally, lowers to you. For the first time, he seems to register your presence properly, his eyes brewing with emotions that flee too quickly to examine any of them in the shadowiness of the room. 

John’s attention digs into you for a lengthy, nerve-racking minute, and he doesn’t lower his pistol when he demands a low, guttural, “Explain.”

Winston answers him, his voice placid but a note of exigency evident. “Not here, but if you follow us—”

John’s features darken again, a tip towards the killer that makes every muscle in your neck tense with agitation. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” his words are accusatory as they are damning. 

A strand of black hair tickles his brow when he slips closer, shadows closing in, so you make the choice first. 

You tip your gun upwards and then drop your hand down to your side. Behind you, Winston inhales deeply at the gesture of surrender. John falters too, a flicker of surprise there before he buries it. He pauses in his step, however, as if unsure how to proceed. 

“I’m trusting you not to kill me for the next ten minutes,” you tell him frankly, looking into his eyes, into him, and nothing else. Beseeching him even though you understand perfectly well why he’s so cautious, why he doesn’t extend his trust after what happened quite so readily. “Just give us ten minutes.”

A suspended moment stretches between you, nothing but your mismatched breaths filling the still air. It tastes like another eternity full of trepidation and gnawing fear. 

A minuscule quiver, but then John’s arm lowers slowly, hesitant. He doesn’t release his hold on the pistol, his grip and presence still wrathful, still bubbling away. But for now, at least, he seems willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Even when he has ample reason not to believe a single word leaving your mouth. 

Something sad and jagged prods your skin while you follow Winston who uses a secret passage in his office to cut through the walkeway and down towards the vaults. The manager stays in front, you a step behind him. You let John walk at your back, and hope that he takes it as another sign that there will be no repeat of a month ago—that this time, he’s the one with the power to return the favour. 

“You look well, Johnathan,” Winston voices amiably, his shoes clicking against the flooring. Tense air aside, he appears entirely at ease. “How do you feel?”

The response is swift and dry, “Like I was shot off a building.”

You cringe inwardly, your lashes fluttering while Winston busies himself with opening the vault. 

“Yes, that,” the manager hums, entering inside with a gesture of his hand for you to follow. “A necessary evil, I’m afraid.”

John doesn’t share Winston’s casualness. “Necessary evil?” he repeats lowly, his voice crackling with traces of aggravation. 

“What Winston is trying to say is that had you stayed on that rooftop you would have died for sure,” you supply mildly, still placing your body between the two men. You know it doesn’t escape his notice, his pistol still at the ready against his thigh. His cagey demeanour is not a shock, nor does it upset you. No, that’s a lie. It does a bit but you understand it. 

“We won the battle,” John says.

A small noise leaves Winston; a hybrid between a sigh and a scoff. “You won a skirmish,” he corrects bluntly. “It was never a fight you could truly win.”

John’s fingers curl, readjust, his frame lingering in the corner of the room, unmoving. Winston seats himself on the leather sofa, and if it weren’t for the different colour of his suit, you could almost pretend that a month hasn’t passed. 

“We know what they’re capable of,” you tell the assassin deliberately, moving across the vault unhurriedly as you talk, “We were down to three people against the entire might of the High Table. Their numbers would have kept coming and coming. They would have waited us out. No matter how many we killed, it won’t have been enough, and we both know that. Doing what Winston did—”

“You knew,” John interrupts, and you don’t miss the shadow of accusation there. Nor the trace of hurt. “That’s why you didn’t help.”

You pause, several feet separating you before you nod only once in agreement, your head hanging in shame before you straighten. It weighs on you. Because you haven’t failed to notice his still fading injuries or uneven stride earlier. He’s still healing. 

Even John Wick has limits. 

“Yes, and I would do it again,” you say firmly after clearing your throat, moving closer till you’re almost face to face. “If it meant there was even a slight chance you get to live, I would do it again. You disobeyed a direct order from the Elder. There would have been no second chances for you, John. This way, we resolidified our loyalty to the Table,” you explain, and linger for a second before turning back towards the manager who watches you with a guarded stare, so you add a deliberate, “This way we’re in a perfect position.”

“Perfect position for what?” John’s voice questions from behind and you halt in the middle of the vault.

Winston answers first, his legs uncrossing as he stands to his feet unhurriedly. “What we discussed last month still stands, Johnathan.”

The manager wanders towards the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a glass of brandy while John digests those words. You peek at him over your shoulder, finding a strain of tangible distrust and disbelief tightening his features, effectively deepening every line on his face. He looms like a clenched fisted carrion creature whose ire could bathe this world in blood if he so chose. Good. If this works, he will need that drive. 

“You expect me to believe that you’re moving against the Table?”

“We are.”

His inky eyes slide towards you, and this time he’s the one who ventures closer. He doesn’t slow, coming to stop right in front of you. John stares down at you, digging for honestly no doubt—for some shadow of a lie but there is none to be found, not this time. 

“You’ve been trying to take control of the Bowery,” his raspy words once again hold that wilful hint of condemnation. “Camorra has been moving to absorb numbers into their ranks here in New York.”

Yes. Gangs and the homeless. Rich and the poor alike. On your order. On Winston’s order. All dressed up in a pretty package of trying to unify New York after such blatant displays of disrespect towards the High Table. You and Winston both had to choke down plenty of your personal feelings to sell this vision and direction to the Adjudicator. 

A show of leadership, of unity. 

“Indeed,” the manager’s voice cuts in. You keep eye contact with the assassin in front of you while Winston’s footsteps move back in the direction of the sofa. “If they’re ours then they’re not the Table’s. Easy logic.”

John blinks at that, the twist of his mouth betraying his deep thought. Albeit gradually, his guard seems to be slipping, lowering marginally, and you’re starting to catch glimpses of your John again. 

“We’re trying to weaponise more than just the Bowery, John.”

The crinkle of his brows deepens before relaxing as he considers your voluntary admission. 

“You’re trying to unite New York,” he concludes in a subdued breath, like it’s just now occurring to him. 

Your small nod makes him lean back marginally, eyes jumping over your figure and towards Winston again. He didn’t expect this conversation or its direction, that much is clear. 

“And so are you,” you begin knowingly. “We’ve been watching closely. The Ruska Roma. The Bowery. After what the Adjudicator did to the Director and the Bowery King everything fell into chaos but then…”

Quiet. Utter and complete quiet. 

Winston was quick to brief you on how the Director and Bowery King were both punished for helping John in his mission of rebellion. 

The Director extended a helping hand, so the Adjudicator visited the older woman when you were on the run, and had her hands pierced by Zero’s blade. A saint paying in red for their benevolence. An excellent reminder of what happens when you step out of the line. No one has seen or heard from the woman since. She’s still alive but little else is known about her or her whereabouts. She’s burrowed herself deep enough that even Winston is having difficulties getting more information without falling back on more aggressive methods of getting answers—something neither of you can afford with the current scrutiny. 

The Bowery King paid an even steeper price due to his defiance when told to step down. The Bowery has always irked the High Table and the rapid growth of its power in New York has drawn many eyes in its direction. This conflict between John and Santino had been the perfect excuse for both parties to try and remove the other, or at least sow chaos. The King didn’t bow before the Table, and paid for the Kimber Super Carry and those seven bullets he gave John to kill Santino with, with seven cuts to his own flesh. The official word on the street is that he’s dead but... 

“He’s still alive.”

John’s confirmation comes as no surprise. 

“Oh, we knew,” Winston reassures flatly. He always believed that the Bowery King was alive, as did you. “And you came here after he no doubt gave you his blessing to remove me by dressing it up as revenge. Because that leaves the city weakened and ready for him to fill the gaps.” 

That causes you to look away from John and back towards the other man. Winston sits with his legs crossed, his face serene with mild boredom. 

The assassin doesn’t deny those words though. You wait for it, even turn to look at him again, but John just continues scrutinising you. You’re not sure what he’s searching for but you hope that he finds it. That he’s open to one last act of faith. 

“We’re after the same thing, John. Together this could work,” you tell him, your nerves tingling and sweat gathering against the nape of your neck. If it doesn’t work... “You need us as much as we need you.”

It’s the only way. The High Table is too overbearingly powerful to take on alone. There is a reason why anyone who has ever tried in the past failed so miserably. But together, with aces and secret weapons, with tricks and deceit…

In the shadows, you can win this fight. Every fiber of you believes it. 

John holds his silence, then his head slants. “You knew that I would come,” he says and it’s not a question, just a fact. You don’t disagree and this close you hear him exhale, his eyes seeking out the manager while he directs his next question his way. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Winston hums in mock thought. “Because if I wanted you dead, Johnathan,” he muses idly. “I would have shot you in the head and spared myself the headache.”

Still, you see the doubt in him. Still, his expression remains skeptical. John did not become the best of the best by mishandling his trust. It’s been breached once, and despite their old friendship, you can see how hard it is for him to step over the barrier of that killer instinct urging him to dispose of the threat. 

“I’m going to dismantle the Table piece by piece if that’s what it takes to be free,” you declare quietly, and his eyes latch onto you, pinning you down. “Whether you join me or not.”

Predictably, John points out something you’ve been waiting for. “Camorra is part of the High Table.”

“I know,” you affirm and the severity of his stare forces your own away. The question there is clear, as is the answer. “And I can’t force you or Santino or anyone else to help me but if razing that system to the ground is the only way…”

You stride further into the vault, pondering how he will handle this implication. Potentially joining forces with you and Winston is one thing. Potentially dragging Camorra—a criminal enterprise that’s been part of the High Table since its inception—is a whole other matter. 

Winston called you a naive idiot when you first suggested it. 

But that’s exactly why it could work. 

Because despite your known connection to the criminal family, no one would ever expect one of their own to turn against them. Especially not Camorra.

It’s insane and stupid and reckless, but that’s exactly why it feels like the most logical thing in the world. 

It is, of course, dependant on Santino agreeing to this madness. 

It’s dependent on asking him to remake his world and potentially rip his family, and everything they ever stood for, at the seams. Tear it apart at the foundation. 

“There is a reason why a system is in place, my dear,” Winston retorts with a relaxed sip of his drink, an old argument between you that’s been creeping back into your discussions and planning continuously. “Without it, we’re no better than animals, you know this.”

A hiss of oxygen escapes you, your mouth tightening. “I do know that,” you confirm, your fingers fidgeting, thumb twisting the ring on your hand in a dizzying circle. “But who is to say there can’t be a different system, a better one?”

Like all the times before it, Winston only gives you a controlled look of soundless disagreement. It’s written on practically every inch of him. You don’t blame him for his cynicism the same way you don’t blame John for his. 

“The old ways run deep,” he expounds wisely. John’s presence seems momentarily forgotten to him. It’s only because he’s been trying to change your course of action for a while now. He wants to help and take down the High Table but he wants it done the _right_ way. It’s not that you disagreed with him—on the contrary, his wisdom you trust above all else—but you also believe in something a little more. “You can’t change the minds of those who have benefited their whole lives from the doings of the High Table. This includes Santino D’Antonio.”

That last addition is deliberate, you know as much. He’s just as prepared for Santino agreeing to this as he is for him refusing and potentially even selling you out. 

You don’t dare to think of that. Even if Santino refuses to help, in your heart, you believe he will not stop you. He would stand aside and if it would be enough. You would never force him to go through with this. 

Still, something about those words ignites a spark in your chest—something dark and foul, something that coos _viper, viper, viper_ with every pump of your blood. Something that makes you tremble with raw, blinding sort of fury. 

“Then we _make_ them listen.”

They will. Or they will meet only one end. You will drag them all from their ivory towers with blood foundations one by one if that’s what it takes. See how they like it when they plead for mercy into the darkness and receive only the echoes of their own cries in reply. 

Winston stares at you for a hard moment, his expression inscrutable. You feel John’s eyes digging between your shoulders too. 

“That’s not only a dangerous but also highly arrogant way of thinking.”

You’re turning away before Winston is done talking, and you know he’s not wrong but you also have nothing left to lose. Fundamental fear that shackled you once is completely absent. 

Raising your arm, you examine the ring on your hand, tucking your fingers in a loose fist.

“This world may be full of killers but that’s not all it is,” you declare, thinking on every face you’ve ever encountered over the years, feeling the weight of Elder’s dagger on your person; a constant reminder of your fragmented self. He wanted you to be his equal. You’re ready to show him just how good of a job he’s done. “There are people out there ready to believe in something different, something good.”

“It’s a pipe dream, V,” Winston argues at once, though his words lack bite. He just sounds exasperated with your stubbornness on the matter. “Forgive me, if I’m not thrilled by the prospect of you bleeding yourself dry for it. We need a plan that—”

Again, that chasm roars, and again, it works your tongue.

“Back before Chicago...when I took that dosage…” you interject and note the smothering silence your words create. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t lying. Not exactly. I wasn’t trying to end my life but...but I also knew what I was taking. I knew perfectly well it could kill me. I just didn’t _care_.”

Your head lifts to the manager, an acute throb of sadness scorching through your senses. Those bright, wise eyes peer at you—no judgement there, not ever—and if you didn’t feel love for him till then, you would for this unfailing and utter acceptance alone. “I didn’t care if I woke up the next day because I didn’t think that I had anyone to wake up to,” you confess in a shaky whisper. You feel John staring at you but can’t work up the nerve to look his way. You don’t want to consider what hearing this might feel like for him. “And I was wrong back then, and I know that now, but it doesn’t change the fact that I felt that. I wish I could take it back. I wish I didn’t feel like punishing myself was the only option I had left. I wish I didn’t hate myself so much I could barely look at my own reflection.”

You’re not ashamed of it anymore. Because you survived. You’re still here. Still fighting and that matters more than any flatter or a stumble ever could. 

You’re still _here_. 

And you have no intention of stopping the fight now. 

“But I was there and I did feel those things, and if there’s even a remote chance I can spare someone else from ever experiencing that…” you trail off and laugh under your breath—a symphony of grief and sorrow that was composed and nurtured by years of suffering—and glance up at the manager. “I know that I can’t change the world alone but I’m willing to fight and die for that pipe dream. The High Table will not steal more lives, and if they try, I will set that table on fire with them still chained to it.”

Winston’s voice is almost kind when he wonders a mild, “And how do you intend to do that, dear?”

A lopsided grin pulls at the edges of your mouth; a small, woeful thing but still there. “Hopefully not alone,” you joke, a slight tremble to your words. 

A secret hope. 

The manager remains quiet, both of you gazing at each other, another wordless exchange. 

“I’ll talk with them,” John’s low voice cuts through the silence, and you turn to face him, startled. “But I can’t promise anything. They don’t trust you.”

Your lips part in wonder, a tremor of hope racing through your veins. 

The manager, on other hand, blinks owlishly, his mouth tightening with barely suppressed irritation. “A mutual sentiment,” he mutters. 

The assassin dips his head. “Winston.”

You take that for what it is. Not forgiveness for what he did, not yet. But a tentative truce. For now. You have no choice but to rely on each other again, and he can no doubt sense that. 

“Johnathan.”

The vault opens near soundlessly but you’re still frozen in place even when John steps outside with one last look in your direction. 

It’s not until his tall figure disappears from your sight that you stumble after him, throwing yourself into the corridor, and seeking out his retreating form. 

“John,” you call his name, watching him halt immediately at the sound of your voice. He glances over his shoulder, his expression guarded and you close the distance between you. This time you’re left exploring his expression for some sign of reassurance. Of what kind you’re not sure just yet. “Thank you. For at least hearing us out.”

He turns to face you properly, a glimmer of softness bleeding through the wall of darkness.

“It’s the least I could do.”

You understand his meaning without further need for elaboration. After the Tarasov affair, after Santino—this little chance is, admittedly, something he owed you but it doesn’t feel sweet to receive it. Not given the circumstances. 

This close up he’s all shadows, blood and steel. He’s just John you know deep in your bones and it’s overwhelming to have him within touching distance again. You want this to work so desperately. 

“Be careful. The hotel is being watched,” you croak out weakly, and your chest caves with relief, spurred on by the further softening of his features. Blindly, you reach out, your fingers folding around the lapel of his suit, just holding him in place for a moment. “I’m...I’m so glad you’re okay. I wanted to find you but…”

Dark depths simmer with subtle understanding this time.

“Yeah, I get it,” he rasps softly, and you hear his shallow breaths, sense his body moving with them. “Too many eyes.”

You don’t trust your voice not to betray you further, so you simply dip your head in confirmation. You’ve been worried sick about him, wondering if maybe you’ve been wrong. If maybe Winston was wrong. What if he survived but his injuries are permanent? 

It’s…

It’s just good to have him back. 

“I’m trusting you,” he breathes suddenly, leaning closer into your space, and you hear the unspoken _not him, not them, you_. “Don’t make me regret it,” he requests in a hushed exhale, his expression creasing near painfully. 

Something potent arcs between you and your eyes find his. He raises his hand, his thumb skimming over your cheek; a featherlight caress that barely registers before it retreats again. 

“I won’t,” you exhale, meaning every word. “This time our goals align. Makes for a nice change,” you continue with a brief, shaky laugh. 

John hesitates briefly, still searching your features, then nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his expression betraying how he doesn’t believe it will stay that way for long. “It does.”

Your faint smile is hopeful but pained. Neither of you points it out. 

* * *

“Well, this is all very ominous.”

Step’s words don’t generate a response the way they normally might, not even from Hector or Julian. 

The Elites are not the only ones in the room, either. Santino, Ares, and Roberto are here too. They’re split across the room. Step on your left and closest to you with Dario and Roberto sharing the sofa with the young hacker. Hector is closest on your right with Julian and Ares beside him. Santino sits directly opposite to you. He looks well today, back in pressed trousers and a clean white shirt. Each sleeve folded back to hug his lean forearms making him appear casual, comfortable. 

The idea of disturbing that tranquility makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

But you can’t delay. 

Because John came back with his response—or rather, one of Bowery King’s little rodents did. It’s too treacherous for John himself to risk being seen alive when you’re being watched so closely. To the criminal world, he’s dead. That’s the best weapon in his arsenal right now. 

The Bowery King and the Director have extended an invitation to discuss the potential joining of forces to handle a common problem. The message was curt and full of blatant digs that created a barely polite invitation. Winston spent ten minutes scowling and eyeballing his crossword puzzle when Charon read it aloud. 

You’re unsure if this will work out, and you definitely don’t trust them not to backstab you, but you _do_ trust the fact that you and John both want the same thing. 

Demolition of the High Table. 

If John is on your side, then the Bowery King and the Director will have no choice but to listen. He’s their best and deadliest asset, and not one they can afford to lose. 

Besides, you have no intention of going quietly into that good night. No intention of trading your life away again. If war is what it takes to end this, to repay in kind for all the harm inflicted on you for an _experiment_, then so be it. 

“V, is everything okay?” Dario wonders with a faint frown. 

And you love them, you really and deeply do. Love them for caring, love them for making you sense the depth of that loyalty daily. 

You’re not afraid to tell them, yet are. In some ways. You don’t want them to think less of you. Such simple words have never felt more huge or hulking while they roll around your chest. It’s a selfish thing to ask, a selfish thing to hope they agree to. 

Everything they are, you’re about to demand be put on a block for dissection. Altered in some way. 

And for what? So you don’t have to go back to the man who helped and build you? 

But it goes past just you and the Elder. The world will not change overnight, will not be good just because you willed it so, you hold no illusions about that—know better than that—but it could…

Maybe, just maybe, it could be a world where a brother and sister don’t have to be turned against one another just so they feel _useful_. 

Santino remains unusually silent while he waits for you to say something. His elbows dig into the armchair, his leg dropped over another at the ankle. Still the same facile arrogance. Now though, it sits slightly different around him, that air. Like he’s no longer an unruly boy playing pretend, demanding attention because he believes it's his right. It feels like he’s a boss of one of the most powerful criminal empires in the world and holds himself as such. 

“No,” you admit slowly, squeezing your eyes shut before you force them open. All the faces staring back at you betray differing levels of confusion or worry. Except for Hector. He just looks knowing. “I called you here for a reason. And it’s not a good reason. I’m sorry. I...what I’m about to tell you I should have shared with you all a month ago but…”

“Whatever it is you can tell us,” Julian prompts softly, and you know their minds are creeping to the worst-case scenarios. 

Your eyes find Santino. 

_I’m sorry_, you plead silently, watching his mouth purse.

Then, you open your mouth and tell them the truth about you, and the Elder, and what Lucien revealed to you. You spare little detail, only holding back the most intimate things away from them. Everything from your first visit to the desert to what is expected of you now. The deal you had to make to get back to them. Hector notices the cleaner version because he burns holes into your temple. He’s waiting for you to reveal the final detail of the story but your mouth remains clamped shut. 

Not for the first time in the last week, you marvel at the suffocating silence your words initiate. 

You were fabricated into being from spare parts, so perhaps it makes sense.

“Holy shit.”

Then a splutter of muffled Italian swear words follows. You don’t need to lift your head to know that’s Step. Your lap consumes all of your attention right now. 

No one speaks for a while after that. 

You can’t look at any of them, especially not Santino. 

The ring on your hand seems like a mockery now that you’ve asked them to wage a war with you against the very organisation they helped to establish. There is a second in which the urge to yank it off is overbearing and you consider doing exactly that. You’re not sure if you’re deserving of it after this. 

“I’m in,” Step finally says with a laugh; it sounds a bit shrill but you don’t mention it. 

“She’s _serious_, you idiot,” Julian counters, sounding wheezy as he does so. 

Step giggles but it sounds insincere. “Oh, I know she is,” he titters and you hear him clap his hands energetically. “I’m down. Let’s do it. Ripping down the High Table? Sounds like fun. No way is some camel man stealing you away to be his concubine or wife, or…whatever.”

“Are you forgetting the part where _we’re_ part of the High Table?” Julian demands tartly, his voice sliding towards a steadier tone. You hear him shift in your direction. “Mio Dio, V, you do realise what you’ve just told us, right?”

Licking your mouth, you raise your head, giving him a forced smile. Your facial muscles tremble with an effort to hold it. 

“You mean the fact that nothing is stopping you, or anyone present here, from standing up right now and informing the Administration that we’re planning a revolt? I sure do.”

Julian stares at you blankly, his mouth agape. Briefly, your eyes flitter to Hector. Legs parted, silver lighter in his tattooed hand, his half-lidded stare smoulders like the fire behind you.

“Leave us.” 

Santino’s voice is smooth, equable but the command there jolts everyone in the room into action. 

Roberto rises first, followed by Julian and Dario. They all look pale and stricken, and you appreciate that it’s a lot to digest at once. Ares is right behind them, her elegant jaw clenched harshly, her eyes a blue flame. You hold her stare for a second before your attention skitters away. You know she’s livid you didn’t tell her sooner. 

Step jumps to his feet after Santino’s second, a whistle on his lips as he departs with a wave in your direction. His stare is sympathetic though, the simmering ember of anger on your behalf very real. As always Step simply dresses up his emotions however it suits him. 

Hector is the last to rise, and he stands over you for a moment—a moment in which your throat closes up because you think that he might and truly expose everything regardless of your request—but then his feet carry him away and he’s gone in seconds. Not a word this entire meeting. 

You can’t bear to look at the man sitting opposite to you. 

There’s always been a nameless pull with Santino. He’s always had a way to snare you and pull you closer no matter how hard you’ve battled against that draw for years. The task of compartmentalising your feelings for him has always felt like an impossible undertaking. 

Right now it feels like an abyss sits between you though. He’s never felt further away in all the years you’ve known him than he does right now. 

Does he still see you as you? How could he when you, yourself, don’t? You feel lost in every sense of the word, and this—this idea, this fight—is the only thing you can focus on lest you fragment like that mirror did. You’ve drawn strength from him, and the guard, Winston and Charon as well. Only stable cruxes in your life. 

You’re not sure how much time passes before you work up the determination to confront him and the brittle silence between you. 

His mouth is pressed into a bloodless, angry line. Santino has shifted during your speech. His back hunched, elbows digging into his thighs, his fingers laced against his chin and expression dark. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time verbally. 

You’re not sure what for. That you’re putting him in this position, that you didn’t tell him for years, that he sits there looking half-furious and half-pained, and once again you’re the one to blame for it. 

Maybe you’re simply sorry that his life is the way it is. That maybe it would be simpler without you in it. 

Santino heaves himself to his feet. Every muscle in his body is taut, thrumming with a cocktail of differing emotions, but he still walks towards the fire, passing you as he does so. 

You half-turn after him. “Say something.”

_Anything_. 

Santino doesn’t. 

Again, he doesn’t. 

You stand to your feet as well, observing his set shoulders, the quivering muscles. Like all those weeks ago when you came to him after Tarasov’s death, Santino looks vacantly down into the open fire, his palm braced against the mantle.

“I understand what I’m asking,” you try again, risking a few steps closer. You just want him closer for a moment. Just the one. “I do.”

Either Camorra goes down with the Table or they will have to transfigure to survive. Change is never a process people find easy or comfortable. In particular a family like Camorra, so set in tradition, in their old ways of ruling. 

“What aren’t you telling me?”

A chill ripples through you. When you fail to respond, Santino pivots on his heels, overcast by that amber glow. Warm shadows lick over his figure but your mouth refuses to work. 

“Nothing.”

He releases an enraged breath, stalking closer. His gait is slower than usual though, more cautious, still mindful of his injuries. He’s still adjusting to the reduction in his vision although the lens remedies it. 

“Ah, cara mia. I’ve known you for years,” he stresses the last part, halting in front of you. His scent and heat tease your skin, fill your lungs. It’s an effort to stop yourself from reaching out, from touching him till your skin melts into his. Always that magnetic pull. “Unless you forgot. I know you better than you think.”

But all you can do is stare at him mutely. With the excruciating stretch of minutes, his fury seems to ebb a little, soften. 

“Oh, amore.”

A hushed address, a regretful wrinkle of brows. 

His hands cup your face, gentle and steadying, and you press your lips together, biting on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crumbling completely. 

“(Name).”

He tugs you closer and you lean into him willingly, your eyes burning when he presses a fluttering kiss to your temple. His arms wrap around you securely, pulling you into the nook that is him. It feels like nothing can touch you here. _Tight, tight, tight_—you squeeze him to you so hard you know it hurts even if he doesn’t make a sound or utter a word. 

You’ve secretly craved this for a month even if you refused to admit it to yourself. Just someone to hold you after everything. 

“I’m so sorry,” he exhales against your hair, his voice scratchy with sorrow, traces of genuine rage. “Oh, amore. I’m sorry. But your whole life is still ahead of you, hm? You’re free now.”

Those words are a bucket of ice water that rips you out of his safe embrace, rips a hole right through you too. In your weakness, you almost spill the one last remnant of truth you haven’t divulged to him yet. 

Time. 

_Time_ is the one thing you don’t have anymore. Even...even the deadline aside…

“The meeting is tomorrow,” you say soberly, barely recognising the empty echo of your own voice. It feels like a stranger's voice now. “Meet us at our usual warehouse at 8PM if you accept. If you do this, there will be no going back. If you don’t...I understand. I do but please..._please_ stay out of my way. Because I’m not going to stop.”

“They’re going to kill you.”

Those words clatter through the room and the absolute conviction of them punctures a hole right through your gut. 

Santino—with his eyes that remind you of summer, and rain, and lemon trees, the soft brush of grass under your fingertips when you napped in the sun together—pleads for something without articulating a single word. A something you’re not capable of giving to him. Not because you don’t want to. But because you might be out of time. 

He reaches for you, a visible tremor in his hand, but you pull back, avoiding his scalding stare. 

Your vision blurs suddenly and you draw a steadying breath, trying to shake the dizzy spell. 

_Not now, not now_—

You visited Doc just this morning. Yet time keeps falling through your fingers like grains of sand.

“Amore.”

Shuddering, you push past him, ripping your way through the apartment. Your sight still swims, black bleeding through everything, and the heaviness of your breaths screams back at you. 

You think Santino—and maybe others—all call out to you. A plea to _wait, stop, don’t go_.

But you don’t stop. 

You can’t. 

_Tick tock, tick tock_. 

* * *

Tabernacle has offered no answers, no absolutions, despite you staring at it for hours now. Your eyes itch with dryness but your blinks are sluggish, reluctant. Like the slight discomfort can offer some guidance. Because isn’t that what being alive is? To hurt? One doesn’t need to lose a loved one to ache, you think absently, just have a beating heart and wait. Sooner or later something always comes crawling your way. 

Others will be processing all you’ve told them right about now, fully grasping the magnitude of everything you disclosed to them. You’re pretty sure your phone has buzzed on several different occasions already but you haven’t found the energy to reach for it. 

You just want to stay very still for a little while. Rest. Steal more time. 

Hope. 

It all comes back to hope—hope and _time_, and both keep fluttering like fleeing birds in your hand. You still hold both clenched in an iron fist but for how much longer? Your options keep dwindling. Rapidly. 

“Can I help you, child?”

The soothing voice behind you jolts you to present, your muscles stiff and aching from sitting in this damn pew for hours. 

Another sluggish blink, and your chin slopes in direction of the voice’s owner. 

An older man lingers behind you, his black cassock fluttering behind him when he treads closer. Candlelight washes over his smooth, dark skin, giving him a calming, peaceful air as do his kind eyes. He reminds you of Charon in some way; a serene presence. Your shoulders slump near instinctively as he continues observing you. Not urging you for an answer, simply waiting, giving you room to gather your thoughts. 

But you can read his intention to hear you when he seats himself another pew over, tucking his hands in his lap with practiced patience. 

There’s a youthfulness to him though you can tell he’s in his fifties at least. A vitality that comes with holy service, you suppose. 

“No, father,” you inform him dully. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

You’re the only one here. The hour is late, the darkness outside is telling enough, but you haven’t gathered the will to leave just yet. Everything has been so chaotic lately and this has proven to be an unexpected shelter of calm. 

You weren’t even meant to be here. Your destination in mind was Doc’s clinic when you departed the penthouse but you were on foot and it started drizzling about halfway through your journey. The church had appeared like another ghost from your past, seemingly placed right in your path, as if on purpose. 

The idea of divine intervention just about makes you cackle. 

“Then, do you mind if I sit with you?”

You blink again and give him a half-hearted shrug. “No, I guess,” you mutter. “Why though? Fair warning, I can be poor company.”

The priest lifts his chin, looking up at the ceiling like it might offer him the perfect answer to that inquiry. 

“Let’s just say that in my many years of service I have learned that anyone who comes and sits inside a church for hours without uttering a word is in need of some company.”

An ambiguous but nevertheless warm smile lingers on his face and you shift in your spot, uncomfortable.

“It was raining outside,” you deadpan. “I was protecting my hair.”

Your hair likely looks like shit anyway. Not much to protect there. 

Amusement flickers over his angular features—the type of amusement that sees more and hears more, that’s not mocking but holds your hand in agreement. He knows better, recognises the lie easily, but like all good priests, he keeps his silence. 

He must be like a Pandora’s Box, you realise suddenly, full of terrible secrets and knowledge that’s not his own. 

You wonder if the things he knows, the secrets he carries for others, keep him up at night. 

“Do you ever doubt, father?” you blurt out, not sure what’s come over you. 

The man blinks at the abruptness of your question, the wrinkles around his eyes tightening in thought.

He considers your question with due diligence that’s surprisingly comforting. Like you’re not just a stranger demanding something deeply personal but a friend he might have sitting at his table and sharing a meal with. 

“Yes,” he admits and you search but find no shame in his body language or voice. “Often, in fact. It is difficult not to doubt with the cruelties of the world outside your doorstep.”

You think about that for a moment. “Yet here you are. Day in and day out. Why?”

He turns towards you, then, like committing to a conversation he wasn’t sure you were willing to partake in previously. 

“I pray,” he says warmly, an air of melancholy brushing over him. His dark eyes drag over the empty pews and the alcoves, the glass stained windows and the altar. “I ask for forgiveness for my doubt, and pray for guidance for myself, and others.”

A sound bubbles from the back of your throat, but he’s been kind, so you try to smother it. Your hum is still, undoubtedly, more mocking than you would have liked it to be. 

“Not really the praying type, father,” you inform him with raised brows and a scathing half-grin. “Not after the things I’ve seen and been through.”

The priest nods in understanding—not pushing which is a welcome surprise—but the gleam in his eyes is a curious one. “Yet here you are. Day in and day out.”

You still, taken off guard by his response to a point even your breaths slow. That little smile stays on his face, and you cock an eyebrow, dragging your eyes around his church as well. So many memories here, none of them good. 

“Tell me, father, do you know who this church belonged to before you got here?” you question mildly.

His head lowers slightly at your probe—which is answer enough—and you watch his profile as he tells you, “I know that these walls were not used to inspire good, or to shelter those in need.”

“No,” you agree quietly. “They were not. Your church knows more bloodshed and death than you likely know secrets.”

Viggo Tarasov made sure of it. His perfect cover. His dark and holy skeleton closet. 

But not anymore. The man is dead, as are most people who had anything to do with him in the first place. 

And soon…

Inside the hidden compartment of your jacket, the Elder’s dagger rests like an anchor; a crown of stones that keeps breaking your neck every time you try to heave yourself above the surface and just _breathe_. 

“It might not have been a holy house once,” the priest muses. “But there is nothing stopping it from bringing hope to others in the future. Even yourself.”

“Hope,” you repeat the word, tasting it on your tongue. 

It tastes like rotten fruit and shards of a broken mirror. 

“Yes, hope,” is the priest’s gentle confirmation. 

This time you laugh, and it sounds sad, you think, like another tragedy. 

“I don’t have much hope these days, father,” you confess in a tiny whisper. Ashamed not to admit it but ashamed to feel like you’ve been lying even to yourself for weeks. “I try. I wake up every day and I fight but…”

“But?”

Once again he doesn’t sound like he’s demanding. He’s just there. A presence. 

“But…” you fade off. “But I’m _dying_, father. It’s going to be slow and painful. And I’m trying _so hard_—”

The pain in your heart forces your mouth shut. Your lips and chin tremble, so you grind your teeth till your gums ache. 

You’re…

A girl living on borrowed time. 

You went into that desert with two vials hidden in the seams of your clothes and came back with only one. 

_Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it._

Even your life. 

You remade the Drowning after Chicago, two versions: one you used to defend the Continental with, and another—even more lethal, the one you were saving for Tarasov—you gave to Doc for safekeeping. To remove the temptation but also because it was the only poison capable of killing that you hadn’t found an antidote for, the only one you haven’t built immunity against. 

For so long you thought that Indonesian Green Erla might be the solution you’ve been seeking. You’ve been studying it for almost a year despite its rarity but…

But faced with a choice between servitude or death, you chose the option that wasn’t on the table. You made your own decision. Took your own gamble. 

You sat on the Elder’s golden throne and felt that poison in your mouth, sitting and waiting for his return. 

Your kiss to him had been nothing more than a kiss of death, a damnation. A slow poison that will eat him just as it’s eating you. If all else fails, at least you have this. At first, it was about one day bargaining for your life, for freedom, via a possible cure. All in—looking back on it now—perhaps naive hope that you will be able to find the answer to the riddle of how to stop the Drowning before it kills you both. Now though—now, you at least know that if all else fails, there will be some form of justice for all he’s done to you. 

The Elder will die unless he finds the cure for this first. But he doesn’t know what he’s been poisoned with, and his deterioration will be slower than yours, more subtle. Precisely until it’s _not_. Because you always did want Tarasov to suffer. 

Now it’s a race against time. 

You and Doc have been working relentlessly, ripping through every option available or known to either of you but nothing has worked so far. 

There is fine irony in the idea of a viper dying from her own poison. 

“Dear child…”

The pity you hear in the quiet exhale is precisely why you haven’t told anyone except Hector. 

Because others would lose all sense of clear thinking if they knew. All they would focus on or care about is the fact that you’re dying and their need to help. But what you’re doing right now is so much more important. Besides what can they tell you about a poison you created that you don’t already know yourself? How do they help with something even you don’t know how to help with? 

They would let guilt and personal feelings cloud their judgment. No, right now, the best thing you can do is let them make their own choices. Choose their own paths outside of you and what you want or need. 

Because this fight isn’t about you, not really, it’s about _them_. 

In case it all goes terribly wrong, this is all for them. 

Your family that you’ve grown to love so deeply. They’re the reason why you’re still fighting, why you will continue doing so until there is no fight left. 

“The truth, father, is that I’m not okay and…” you mumble tiredly. “And I haven’t been okay for a very long time now…”

Not for years. 

“Surely there are treatments—”

You rub your fingers against your nose to hide your face, ignoring the pain you feel clawing through your heart. “Not for this.”

Candles blur into a smear of orange and gold when you look towards them, and you force yet another breath. Heart or lungs, it’s a wonder which one will give out first. Doc has been working on something to slow the spread, buy you more time. A fusion with Green Erla at the base that’s been helping but it will only get you so far. 

“I deserve it,” you whisper, angling your head, feeling another empty smile pulling across your face. “Not in a...self-pitying kind of sense. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, father...so if it doesn’t work out—well, it’s just another awful thing in a long line of awful things I’ve been through. It’s okay. You don’t have to look so miserable on my behalf, I’m used to it by now.”

You suppose that’s tragic in its own way too. 

The priest doesn’t respond right away, seemingly lost in his head, or maybe he’s taking pity on you and giving you a moment to compose yourself. You’re not sure which it is but you’re grateful regardless. 

It strips you bare, admitting this. These traitorous thoughts that you’ve tried to smother over this last month. 

That Kishi was right all along. That you died back in Tokyo, and everything in your life since then has been a ghost going through the motions until time eventually caught up with her. 

It’s just so unfair that it’s now. Finally when you found a home and people who love you. 

“You consider the hardships of your life to be a form of punishment but I cannot say that I agree,” the priest’s low words turn your head back towards him. His face is regretful but his words are forgiving. Like although a pew separates you, he’s holding you close in an embrace, soothing you the way a parent might soothe a weeping child. You no longer remember the comfort of your parents’ embrace. 

You don’t remember much of anything about them anymore. 

“Those who are the strongest, those who persevere, are those He tests the harshest _exactly_ because they can bear it,” the man continues gently, and this time you gold his gaze even though it hurts. “The hardships of your life are not markers of your weakness. I would argue the exact opposite is true. They’re testaments of your strength.”

“But it’s not _fair_.”

Much like a child, you sound sullen and small. 

“No, it is not,” the man agrees softly, sadly. 

Back when you told Winston the truth and he agreed to help you bring down the High Table, you asked him why. Demanded to know why he would because while you didn’t doubt his sincerity, he’s also always been a principled man. Always planning ahead. It seemed foolish to risk everything he’s built over the years for this. 

But he had given you his usual flat, unamused stare, and bestowed yet another lesson on you that’s been rattling at the back of your mind ever since. 

_When things remain stagnant for too long, they begin to rot. There is a reason why they burn dead grass fields. Fire destroys but it also purifies._

Fire destroys but it also purifies. So new things may grow from the ashes. 

You’ve drowned your whole life, holding onto any rope you could reach to survive. 

You’re tired of drowning. 

Tired of being pulled down and chained. 

You know fire, have tasted it, have felt it purring in your bones and chest. 

It might have been smothered for years but there have been glimpses of it too. Tokyo, the Hunt, Chicago, Prague, this fight for your life. 

A cycle, a shedding of skin, a burnt grass field. 

You do know fire and how to live in it, how to thrive in it. That’s what truly forged you over the years. 

And now you finally understand what that bottomless, tranquil chasm inside you is. 

_Acceptance_. 

Of the path waiting ahead and its final destination. You’re not done just yet, not even close. 

It’s time to set a fire again. 

One last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to quote Stephen Strange but: _We're in the endgame now, folks._
> 
> Want more coa or to simply scream at me? find me on Tumblr: the-darklings

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [if you can't stop the cracks from spreading, break beautifully](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813683) by [IfNotForWinter (AbigailPeters)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailPeters/pseuds/IfNotForWinter)


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